


Deus Meus Adiuva Me

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Mentions of self-harm, Suicidal Ideation, cameo: elektra natchios, cameo: foggy nelson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-01-05 04:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18358973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Matt is almost 50, and his body has taken so much punishment he is a wreck. He even had to give up Daredevil.He feels old and useless and so he leaves NY to go to a monastery, officially on a retreat but without planning to ever come back.Will he find a new purpose? Will he find some peace and healing?





	Deus Meus Adiuva Me

**Author's Note:**

> The title means "God, help me" and is the title of a Middle-Ages Irish [hymn](https://omniumsanctorumhiberniae.blogspot.com/2012/12/mael-isu-ua-brolchain-deus-meus-adiuva.html) written by a monk.
> 
> Hover over underlined words in the fics for a quick note.
> 
> Accompanying [art](https://instagram.com/p/Bw5jZTgDFOo/) by hesterlcullen on [IG](https://instagram.com/hesterlcullen) and [Tumblr](https://hesterlcullen.tumblr.com/), see the end of the fic!
> 
> Fits my [DaredevilBingo](http://daredevilbingo.dreamwidth.org/) card prompt _damages_ and my [MattElektraBingo](http://mattelektrabingo.tumblr.com/) card prompt _fix it_.
> 
> Thank you to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel) (who kindly betaed this fic) and to [Beguile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/) for all the encouragement, hand-holding, and listening to my rants :-)
> 
> Matt is in a really bad place at the start, but you can scroll down to the ending if you need to check if this has a sad or happy ending. I'm not going to spoil it here, but I certainly won't blame you if you do (I often do it myself ;-).
> 
> This is not a love story, but past canon relationships do play a meaningful part.

 

The train was rushing along its tracks, and the gentle sway of the car was lulling Matt into not quite sleep, but an exhausted doze at least. He was tired, so tired; he’d been tired for weeks. Months. More than that even, if he were to be honest with himself. He tried to be, but the truth sometimes… the truth was terrible, terrible like angels were terrible in the Bible. But they would say, _Be not afraid_ , and the faithful would rejoice in their hearts and God’s benevolence would shine upon them. No one had come to tell Matt not to be afraid, and he was. He was.

He knew he was fleeing, he knew he was being a coward, but he didn’t know what else he could be. He couldn’t really flee himself, although the thought had crossed his mind. Several times. It wouldn’t have been the first time in his life he’d courted death, even; but… He thought of Foggy, of his and Marci’s twins – what would he tell them if Matt did… that? _Uncle Matt committed suicide by proxy_? No. He couldn't do that to Fogs. Fleeing wasn’t good, but at least not as bad. Probably.

Death, in his worst moments, sounded like peace, like rest, like he could finally, finally close his eyes and know why it was dark. Like he could sleep forever, leave pain and aches behind, like nothing would hurt. He didn’t even care, in those moments, that he’d be damned: he just wanted it, wanted everything, to be over. But oh, how he fought such thoughts. When he latched on the idea of a retreat it felt like he had, maybe, an answer.

He’d even warned them, about some of it at least. He’d called Karen and said, _I’m taking a break_ ; he’d told Foggy, _here’s where I’m going for a week or two_. He hadn’t waited for their reaction, either – he could guess, and he hadn’t wanted to have those talks. So Matt had put his things in order, checked there was enough in his bank account to pay his bills and rent for a few months, packed a small bag, and hopped on the train. Well, not quite hopped. Hobbled, maybe.

A Brother from St Yves would be waiting for him at the station, and maybe once there – maybe there would be peace, at last.

Matt was just so tired.

 _Please God, let me find peace_.

 

His phone vibrated in his breast pocket 10 minutes before the train pulled into the station. Matt let reality trickle back into him, from his constant backache to the pounding in his skull from the perfume the woman in front of him was wearing. He unfolded his cane, grabbed his bag, and slowly made his way to the door. The train’s vibrations were hell on his balance, and he clenched his jaw. He didn’t need help. He wasn’t who, _what_ he’d been but he still didn’t need help. He gingerly stepped down onto the platform and listened around. Quiet footsteps, they sounded like leather – ah, sandals. He tried to smile, but his face wouldn’t cooperate; so he settled on neutral and probably only reached ‘tired’. Foggy told him these days, his main expression was ‘tired’.

“Mr Murdock?” The monk’s voice was nice. Assured, quiet.

“Yes. Brother Anthony?”

“That’s me. I hope you had a pleasant journey?”

Matt didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to start with a negative answer either. He settled for a vague humming, and tried to heft his bag over his shoulder. His arm screamed and the bag fell with a thump on the platform. His throat closed up and he felt like choking, or crying, or yelling, or just letting himself fall down to the concrete next to the bag and let time and life and everything fly past him.

“Let me,” Brother Anthony said, and he heard the scrape of fabric against the ground as he picked up the bag. Matt tried to protest but it was pointless; Brother Anthony would not be swayed. “You look tired and in need of rest, Mr Murdock. It’s no bother.” He slung the bag over his own shoulder and moved to stand next to Matt. “I can guide you to the car,” he said, “if you’d like. I’m standing on your right.”

Matt took the elbow that was offered and mumbled his thanks. He didn’t say anything else, not when they reached the car and not when they drove on a gravel path and not when the car stopped and Brother Anthony led him inside the monastery. It took everything he had not to start crying at – at everything. Brother Anthony let him be, calm and solid.

The memories assaulted him, of holding Foggy’s elbow as they drunkenly swayed their way back to their dorm, of Elektra giggling on his arm as they pretended to be too intoxicated to walk straight on the night they stole those documents, of clinking bottles with Karen and Foggy when they decided to start their firm again, of a hand wiping his brow when was falling into sleep. Back when he’d still been himself, still been useful, still been able to move as he wanted to.

He was just tired. That was all. Tomorrow he’d feel better. He would.

 

He didn’t.

He must have looked pretty bad the night before because as soon as Brother Anthony took him to the Superior they gave him the key to his room and told him they’d talk more on the next day, and he was grateful. He’d needed it, the isolation and the quiet and, yes, the bed.

He thought he would go to Vespers or Compline after a nap, but when he woke up it was early morning. Everything was strange; the countryside sounds outside and the rough sheets under him, the strange smells that were nothing like New York’s, and the way the room was set around him. He didn’t know where anything was. He’d just dropped his bag, toed his shoes off, and laid down and suddenly he was waking up, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. He felt gross. The only thing that was familiar was the various aches that told him every morning he was still alive.

 _I’m not even 50_ , Matt thought. _How can I be_ – but he knew why. He knew how. And he couldn’t even regret it; he’d done good. He should have, perhaps, been more careful at times (Foggy would say he never was); but he wasn’t sure it would have made much of a difference. He was a wreck now, and that was how things were.

Stick had been more careful, more ruthless (he’d have said, _efficient_ ); but Matt… he’d never held back, he’d never chosen to kill when it would have been easier, and he was paying the price. But he didn’t wish he’d done _that_ differently, either.

He waited for his mind to settle again in his body, to remember that one too many hit on the head had made his senses unreliable at times, to feel the stiffness in every joint and push past it, push himself up and sit, then stand. So slowly, now.

He felt for the wall and followed it to a door – there was a lock on that one; it led into the corridor – then another. The tiny bathroom. His clothes were probably too rumpled to be worn again and so he threw them in the basket next to the cramped shower, and he let the water wash away the night. He’d ask a monk to cut his hair soon, something short and practical. The towel was thin and a bit scratchy, but he hadn’t come here for comfort and coddling. He scrubbed himself dry and reveled in the sensation, this unpleasantness one he chose and controlled. He touched his arm where he’d rubbed particularly energetically and felt the raised lines left by the rough cotton. They wouldn't last, but he’d put them here himself. Because he could.

He sat on the bed to put his clothes on and tried not to think how old and dead that made him feel, and as he was zipping his sweatshirt up the bells started ringing. It was time.

Matt took his cane because he needed it now, opened the door and – where was the church? He remembered he had a map of the monastery on his phone; it could guide him if the battery wasn’t dead. His cane hit the door jamb as he turned back into the room and the vibrations reverberated up his wrist, his arm, his shoulder. He didn’t swear, he didn’t. Not out loud.

“Are you coming to Vigils, Mr Murdock?” It was Brother Anthony.

“Matt,” he said. “Please. And yes, I would like to.”

“Well then,” and it was – it was easy. Brother Anthony touched his arm to let him know where he was, Matt slipped his hand in the crook of the proffered elbow, and off they went.

No one said anything when he stayed in the church after mass, but Brother Anthony was there when he stood up, feeling creaky and empty – not in a bad way, just… empty. Matt wiped his face, remembered he’d left his glasses in New York, and fumbled for his cane. He wasn’t here to hide what he’d become.

“Father John says he’s ready when you are, but you can take whatever time you need.”

“I’ve made the Superior wait too long already.” Matt was startled at the sound of his own voice. When had it gotten so rough? It was like he hadn’t spoken in a week.

“Your stay here has been planned beforehand, Matt. It’s your retreat, your time of prayer and contemplation and, maybe, something else.” Matt shook his head. “People come to us for many reasons. We’re here to help and to serve.”

“I…” He was grateful, but also felt out of place. The rituals, the words were familiar; but everything else… Even the stone under their feet as they walked. “I’ve also come to offer my services, in exchange for your welcome.” He gestured with his cane. “I can’t be of much use for some things, and I’m a city boy born and bred; but… As I told you on the phone, I can help with other things.”

“Yes, you can. But nothing’s urgent, and you still look like you haven’t slept in a year.”

Matt couldn't help a little laugh. “Yeah, I feel like it.” They were outside now, and the morning sun was nicely warm.

“I’m glad to see you can still smile,” Brother Anthony said. “Hallelujah.” It felt like an arm pushing down on his throat. “Matt? Matt, did I say something…?”

Matt’s breaths were coming a little short, and he dropped his cane to feel for something, anything that could hold him up; a wall, a bench, anything, he’d take anything. Brother Anthony pushed him down and he half-fell, half-sat on stone.

“We’re in the cloister,” Brother Anthony said. “This is the low wall around the central garden. We’re alone.” He heard Brother Anthony pick up his cane, fold it and put it on his right side, and then he sat on Matt’s left. “What do you need?”

“I’m, I’m sorry,” Matt choked out.

“What for?”

“I, I can’t…”

“Breathe. In, out. You can do it, Matt.”

He couldn't, he couldn’t, he – Brother Anthony moved to crouch in front of him, took Matt’s hand and put it on his own chest. His habit was rough, the weave thick. His hand was going up and down slowly, regularly, with every inhale and exhale Brother Anthony took, and Matt tried to focus on that. Follow it, copy it. In, out; in, out.

After a while, it felt less like he was buried alive under rocks ( _no, no, don’t think about that_ ) and more like he had the first time Claire had stabbed him with a needle because his lung had collapsed. He could breathe again. He could breathe again.

“There,” Brother Anthony said. “Better?” Matt nodded. “Good.” He didn’t move from the ground though, and kept Matt’s hand where it was. “Was it something I said?”

“It’s not your fault.” God, he sounded wheezy. Like an old, old man. He never thought he’d reach old age, but then again he’d imagined a fight gone wrong, a bad fall. A stray bullet. Not… that.

“No one said it was. But your reaction, Matt. What triggered it? So we know how to avoid it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Cut it out, now.” How old was Brother Anthony? His voice, how he moved, he couldn’t be much older than Matt. Maybe even younger. A forty, fifty-something monk, welcoming and practical and no-nonsense. “There’s no need for sorry. Would you rather talk to the Superior?”

Matt shook his head. “I’m fine.”

Brother Anthony chuckled. “Something tells me you tend to say that when you’re not. You haven’t looked fine for one second since you’ve arrived.”

“I haven't been here long.”

“All right. I hope you’ll prove me wrong then.” His fingers moved, probed Matt’s. “Hm. Your hand feels like it’s been broken in a few places. You a fighter?” Matt’s head jerked back. “You are, huh. That’s good. Then you _will_ prove me wrong.”

“I…” What could he say? Matt curled his hand into a loose fist in his lap when Brother Anthony released it and stood up. “It’s just, I, you reminded me of someone.”

The swish of thick fabric on stone as Brother Anthony sat back down again. “You miss them?”

“Very much.” Matt rubbed his face, ran his fingers through his hair. Too long, it was too long. “Maggie, my, uh. My mother. She died a few months ago.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Brother Anthony said. The words were rote, but only the words. He meant them; his heartbeat was strong and true.

“She was a nun. She… It’s a long story.”

Brother Anthony didn’t react. “We have time.”

“Don’t you have – ”

“My first duty in the eyes of God is to those who need me, as you do.”

So, Matt talked. Finally, finally, he talked.

 

He was drained. He’d talked until his voice gave out, and then they’d just stayed there, sat on the low wall, the early spring sun warming their backs and the sound of the wind through the garden behind them the only noise for most of the time.

The Superior came to them before the next mass and exchanged a few words with Brother Anthony, but Matt… he only nodded and shook his head and hummed. He couldn't talk anymore; he’d talked enough for one day. For a week. Foggy would be hurt he’d opened up like that to a stranger about his mother, or maybe relieved he’d finally done what he’d urged him to do for so long; although he usually said, _go talk to a doctor_ and not, _go talk to the first monk you meet_.

Brother Anthony talked for him though, said their guest was settling, that they were praying together. The Superior didn’t seem to mind Matt was making his monk miss a service; he simply said he was glad their guest was with them, that he hoped his stay would give him what he needed and that his own door, should he need it, was always open. That he would be available if Matt wanted Confession or Communion, including outside of services.

He had a slight limp, and when he walked away to go to the church his habit was brushing his calves at a particular rhythm. That was how he’d recognize him, Matt thought.

The voices of the monks reached them outside, raising and falling with the familiar ritual praying and chanting.

“Would you like to pray with me?”

Matt nodded, and fished under his sweatshirt for the cross Maggie had given him long ago. He took it off and wound the string around his fingers, and let the words flow through his mind, Brother Anthony’s quiet and comforting voice guiding him to a place of peace for a little while.

 

A few days after he’d arrived, Matt had settled. He knew where things were, he’d exchanged a few words with most monks, he followed their schedule. Guests didn’t have to, but with every passing hour it felt more… right. It felt like it was where he was meant to be, what he was meant to do, now.

It was too early to talk about it with the Superior, but he did with Brother Anthony one morning as they were peeling vegetables for the congregation’s dinner.

“It’s really why I’m here,” he said. “I think… I think it may be my calling now. I need to try and see.”

“So you might be staying longer than the two weeks you signed up for?”

“Yeah.”

“What about your life back in New York?”

Matt shrugged. “That life… I haven’t been myself in too long. I can’t be myself anymore, I have to find who else I am.” He realized he hadn’t thought of death as much since he’d arrived. That was another sign, probably.

“A lawyer? The doting uncle to your friend’s children?”

Matt smiled a little. He liked the twins. Sean and Moira… they were mini Foggies, to him. But they were not his, and he was not theirs. “It just… I can’t explain it. There’s something else, I feel there’s something else I should be doing.” He put the knife down. “No, that’s not quite right. I used to do more than that, but now I can’t, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know who I am any more, who I should be. I can’t go on, I can’t do what I thought I was called to do. Not anymore.”

“But you can still be a lawyer, right? Isn’t that a good thing? Don’t you help people in need?”

Matt’s finger ran along the knife’s blade. It was a bit dull. A sharp blade wouldn’t hurt when it sank in; the pain only came after. This blade, though… it would hurt. It would have to work at cutting, it would have to – Brother Anthony’s hand closed over his, tight enough to stop Matt’s playing with the knife. He didn’t say anything, and Matt was grateful. He tried to breathe in, deep and slow, but it was shuddery instead. He pushed past it. Brother Anthony was waiting for an answer, calm and patient.

“Helping… that’s what I set out to do, when I chose to study law. Back then in Hell’s Kitchen, many people needed legal representation, and couldn’t afford most firms. My friend Foggy and I… we helped, I think. But now, things are different. People are different. They don’t need our help as much, I guess. We’ve gone from helping tenants facing eviction to divorces, or heirs contesting wills, or…” He shrugged. The neighborhood had changed. A lot of people had either moved or become richer. They could have set up shop elsewhere in New York, but it was still home. It was still supposed to be home. What else was there for him? He couldn’t be anywhere else in New York, but home didn’t feel like home any longer.

“It sounds like you’re at a turning point in your life.” Brother Anthony released his hand, but took the knife away.

“Life… yeah. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or to be.” He just… didn’t fit, now. “I was on the verge of, ah.” Calling it suicide felt wrong. He couldn't say it, not in a monastery and not to a man who had dedicated his life to helping others. He didn’t even think of it as such, but more of an erasing of what he was now, a useless relic from the past. “But then I thought there was _this_ , that I hadn’t tried _this_ yet. And I think… it feels right.”

“You haven't been here a week.”

Matt turned a potato in his hand. “How did _you_ know?”

“God called me,” Brother Anthony said. Matt turned his head in his direction and waited. He still knew how to make someone talk. He wasn’t interrogating a witness on the stand, but he still had his lawyering skills. “I don’t know, really. I went to church irregularly, I had a girlfriend, we were talking about having kids… the usual. But I always had this feeling, a sense of… unease. Disquiet. I prayed more, I volunteered at my church; I found that helping others, that praying with a community was what I was destined for. I had to be there for everyone, and not just one little family. The world is my family, all children are my children, all men and women are my brothers and sisters.”

“What about your girlfriend?”

“Rosa? Well, she wasn’t _happy_ , but she was happy for me, you know? One of her cousins had joined a convent. She knew about these things already.” Brother Anthony started chopping a carrot, the regular _thunk thunk thunk_ a counterpoint to his words. “There are always sacrifices.”

“Sacrifices aren’t new to me,” Matt said.

“No, I don’t think they are.”

They finished preparing the meal for the community in silence (and Matt didn’t get to do anything else with a blade), then Brother Anthony led him to the church for Communion. It felt like the only thing that nourished him these days, the only thing that sustained him; but the monks never let him skip lunch in favor of more prayer. Matt was pretty sure Brother Anthony had told them to keep an eye on him and make sure he wasn’t spending mealtimes and the night hours on his knees in church or meditating in the garden, his old rosary worn smooth in his hands.

He tried to resent it, but mostly it reminded him of the warmth of his college days, when Foggy would make him take breaks from studying and make sure he was fed and well-rested and… yeah. Back when life was simpler, back when he was just discovering that there were good things to be had, back when he hadn’t fucked up by trying to do good. Not yet.

 

Today was the day he was starting work for the monastery, now they’d dug out of storage the old Braille reader a member of their congregation had used. On the phone, they’d told him he didn’t need to bring any special equipment, but they hadn’t said what they had was 20 years out of date. Matt could still definitely work with it, and he had brought his phone just in case; so he would be able to do what he was supposed to.

He still couldn’t help feeling like a dinosaur, a fossil stranded out of time, when he ran his fingers over the reader. He’d had the same one 30 years ago. Everything had been so new, then.

He sighed and sat down at the desk, feeling for the documents they’d had transcribed in Braille and the computer set up for him. He had a job to do, and he’d do it well. He owed it to the monastery for welcoming him on such short notice and accommodating his needs and – he owed it to them.

The Brother who had dealt with most administrative matters had died a couple years ago, and while the Superior kept things afloat and paid for extra help when the congregation needed it, there was a lot of paperwork that had been postponed again and again. Donations, tax documents, wills, property deeds… thankfully, most of it was on the computer and so accessible to him, and the rest was in Braille.

Prayer, prayer and work for the community that had welcomed him. Maybe he could be useful again, here. Maybe he could find a purpose again. Matt put an earpiece in and forgot about everything else for a few hours.

 

“Brother Anthony said you had something to discuss with me,” the Superior said.

“Yes, Father.” After two weeks in the monastery, Matt knew. He didn’t want to leave, ever. He would have to call Foggy, maybe make one last trip to New York to give away his stuff and say his goodbyes, and then he could come back here and lose himself in the rituals, lose himself in the work. He couldn’t really do most of the physical work the other monks did, but he could find something. In the kitchen, or maybe the cloister garden. Maybe he could sit and work on a bench, maybe he could do some woodwork. He’d find something, anything. He had to.

“I’m listening, son. What’s on your mind?”

“Father,” Matt said. “Father, I… I feel I am called to God’s service. I would like to become a postulant here.”

“It is only the first step on your path of discernment, Matthew. It may lead you to join us, or it may not.”

Matt tried not to fidget with his cane. Foggy had told him many times it was one of his tells, and he didn't want Father John to doubt him. “I know.”

“You will have to go back to in New York, to put your life there properly on hold for several months at least. You may come back to it.”

“That’s… things can wait until next year as it is.”

“So you came here officially for a fortnight, but in fact more? That’s news to me.”

No, I…” He couldn't lie. He would be a monk, he couldn’t lie, he’d lied about too many things in his life; but… it was terrifying. Admitting everything he had been – but he’d have to. He would. Baby steps, he thought. Baby steps. “I was pretty confident that was the path for me, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself either. I’ve, uh, I’ve been known to take rash decisions sometimes.”

“And this is not?” What? “Matthew, I’ll be honest with you. Your faith is strong and real, that is not in question. But to me, it feels more like you’re running away from something, running into the arms of God rather than setting out to do His work and glorify His name. This is not a place to hide forever and lick your wounds, son. I know you believe what you’re saying, I also know there are many things you’re not telling me. No,” Father John said when Matt opened his mouth. “No, I am not blaming you. You haven’t been here for long, and we all have things in our lives that we need time to deal with. But in time, Matthew, there can be no secrets here. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

“I know you’ve struck a rapport with Brother Anthony, and I am glad. But you can’t have favorites, Matthew. If you choose this path, you have to be fully part of our community, share all our activities.”

Work. He was talking about work, right? “I can find something to do, Father. I _am_ blind and I can’t, there are things I can’t do; but I’m sure I can find something… I can work in the kitchen or the workshop, or with the laundry; I can…” What could he do? There was something, he’d find something.

“I was thinking something on the line of sharing all the meals with us, for a start.”

“Oh.”

“Brother Stephen said you tended to skip meals for prayer, and while I can only commend you for striving to get closer to our Lord, you can’t neglect your needs or the community. This is a monastery, Matthew, a Brotherhood; we are not hermits.”

“I will do better, Father.”

“And Brother Anthony said it was probably unwise to let you work with knives and blades.” Matt tried very hard to keep his face as neutral as possible. “He noticed your hands are too damaged to hold them securely and safely.”

Matt breathed out slowly. “I’ve lost some fine motor control, yes. I’ll do whatever you think is best, Father.”

“Well, we’ll find you something besides working on a computer all day, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Don’t thank me quite yet, Matthew. We will talk more along your journey. But first, I would like you to see Brother Raphael, schedule a thorough check-up with him. I would like him to give a professional assessment of your abilities and needs, so we can assign you meaningful work in the community while you are here.”

“I do not need anything more than the others, Father; no special treatment. I want to be fully part of the community, I don’t…”

“I know. This is why I will trust his judgment.” Father John’s voice was firm and kind. “No member of the community is to be coddled, but no one is allowed to go too far and willingly harm themselves.”

“I wouldn’t…”

“You strike me as the kind to push yourself too far, too hard.”

“I…”

“That will not do in the service of God or of humankind. Regular meals, proper medical care, a decent amount of sleep. And night vigils in the church do not count as rest, Matthew. I will not tolerate any less.”

“Yes, Father.” Obedience. It had never come easily to him, but it was his duty now.

The Superior sighed. “I’ll be straightforward. I am not sure this life is the right one for you, but maybe it is the path you have to take for now. God has led you here to St Yves, and we welcome you in our midst. Yours is a hard road, I think, my son. But you are not alone on that road.” Matt heard Father John shuffle some papers, then put them aside. The thump of elbows on the desk. “Matthew,” he said. “We haven’t had a postulant in a while, and so we do not have an official Novice Master. You need guidance, and I do not know… I will have to think on who will be the best choice.”

Matt tried to thank Father John, but his throat had closed up. He nodded and tried to breathe and maybe cried a little when the Superior rose to stand in front of him and put his hands on his hair. “Go with God, Matthew. May His hands always lead you, may His Words always guide you.”

“Amen,” Matt choked out.

He would be good, he would work hard, he would be obedient and selfless, he would devote himself to the community and his tasks and prayer, he would. He _would_.

 

The next evening, after Compline, Matt caught up to Brother Anthony in the kitchen.

“Would you like some tea?”

Matt could hear the water heating up in the kettle, the clink of ceramic mugs on a tray. “Please.”

The kettle clicked, and water was poured in – six mugs, Matt counted. “I’m just going to take these in the garden, for our Brothers. Would you like to join us? It’s pleasant outside, more than in here.”

He was supposed to spend time with the community, he remembered. “Yes,” he said, and he followed Brother Anthony to the quiet yard under the dormitories.

Brother Raphael was there, he recognized his voice when he thanked Brother Anthony. “Fine evening, eh?” Matt wasn’t sure who he was talking to. “Father John asked me to schedule an appointment with you. Monday morning good for you?”

Oh. So that was him. “It’s fine,” Matt answered.

“We’ll go after Lauds and breakfast, then. I usually spend Mondays at the clinic in town, to help our larger community. Would you mind staying the day there after your check-up? You can celebrate the day services with me in the clinic chapel. I’m sure someone with your skills can find something to do.”

“My skills?” What skills was he talking about, having to sit down after walking a quarter mile?

“Well, yes. The Hopewood clinic is a charity, privately funded. Our patients are people of little means, and some of them would certainly benefit from your legal advice. They need help.”

“Oh. Then, of course. Gladly.” Maybe that could be something he could do, that would make him valuable to the congregation. Maybe they’d keep him, if he could help Brother Raphael’s clinic. He’d show the Superior that he could be of use, yes. That he could bring something that was more than filing old documents and filling forms that they had to transcribe in Braille for him.

Matt sat on a chair with the others, drank his tea, and let their words wash over him, let the evening sun warm him a little. His hips were throbbing, a dull, constant pain; but he was used to it. He was blind, and he was in pain, and he was Catholic. Sometimes, it all felt like the same thing.

“Everyone is gone,” Brother Anthony said.

Matt shook his head. “Oh.”

“You were dozing. You seemed… at peace.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. Did you want to talk about something in particular?”

“Yes, um.” Matt sat up and rubbed his face. He moved too quickly and his body reminded him that was a bad idea. He ignored it. “I need a haircut. Something short, something easy. I’d do it myself, but I don’t have…”

“You can go to a hairdresser’s on Monday when Brother Raphael drives you to town.”

“I just…” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s too much.”

“Don’t you have barbers in New York?”

“I haven’t seen one in years. My, uh. My mother used to.”

“I’m not your mother,” Brother Anthony said, very gently. “I’m not a barber either.”

“It’s just…” What could he say? Matt didn’t like anyone he didn’t know touching him, especially now he couldn't defend himself. Especially when they were coming at him with sharp objects. Maggie had cut his hair for years, carefully snipping away with the same scissors she used on the few children St Agnes still housed. There were not many now. Not as many as when he’d been an orphan himself. After he’d quit being Daredevil, after she hadn’t needed to stitch him up or wrap a sprained wrist any longer, it had remained one of the few times she touched him. “It’s too long,” he finally said.

Brother Anthony didn’t move for a long moment. The wind was going through the tall grass, and sometimes a sheep would bleat in the distance. Matt wasn’t used to those sounds, and they still made him uncomfortable. Reminded him how lost he was, here. But it could become his new home. His new life, his new self.

“All right,” Brother Anthony finally said. “Wait here.”

Matt waited. Footsteps fading into the buildings, regular and unhurried, then after a while coming back. He bowed his head, and kept silent.

“I borrowed Brother Stephen’s electric razor. I’m going to cut the length first, all right?” Matt nodded. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

The quiet snip, snip of the scissors was something Matt could focus on. Something rhythmic, expected, known; not like the countryside noises. The strands of hair fell around him and the breeze would carry them away. They wouldn’t need to sweep, afterwards.

“Matt,” Brother Anthony said. His voice was another anchor in the world, low and slow and soothing. “You know why I’m doing this.” Matt kept quiet. “I can’t trust you near anything sharp on your own, not now. I haven’t said why yet to Father John, but it will come out. I don’t think…” Snip, snip. Brother Anthony stopped cutting. “He’s asked me to be Novice Master. You are the first postulant in a while, and I do believe you’re committed. But I don’t think… God will know. God will tell you, in time.”

“Father John said the same thing.”

“Yes. He said you needed guidance from a peer more than discipline from an older, more experienced monk.” Brother Anthony resumed the cutting.

“I’m not that delicate.”

“You’re… brittle, and you know it. Whatever path you take, whatever path God sends you on, Matt – you need to acknowledge it.” Brother Anthony put the scissors down on the chair next to Matt. “What length?”

“I don’t know. Quarter inch?”

“All right.” He turned it on, and they didn’t speak as the razor buzzed and tiny hairs fell down around his face.

When it was finished and the razor was silent again, Matt ran his palms over his head. It felt strange, alien. Not like him. he’d never had hair that short, that… practical. Easy. Freeing. “Thank you,” he said.

“Matthew.” Brother Anthony never called him Matthew. “You're seeing Brother Raphael on Monday.”

“Yes.”

“You must speak with him truthfully.” Coarse fabric rasped against the plastic of a chair, and Brother Anthony sat down. “Among the things you will have to do to become one of us, you will have to be more open. And your health is a source of concern, both on its own right and regarding your desire to be part of our community.”

Matt felt for his cane and wrapped his fingers around the handle. It was familiar and smooth, and he rested his forehead on his fists. “I know.”

“Starting with Brother Raphael, Matthew. And then, Father John and myself.”

“I will.”

“Prayer… It has healing powers, but it can’t heal everything.”

“I know.” Matt stood up. It was a slow process; the air had cooled and his joints were protesting. “Thank you. I will pray, now.”

“And sleep.” Brother Anthony was smiling, Matt could hear it in his voice.

“And sleep, of course.” Matt turned and made his way to the door, his cane swiping the ground in front of him. As long as he followed the stone path, it wouldn’t look too strange for him to know where to go, or so he hoped.

He tried to care that it mattered, at least.

 

Monday came, and with it Matt’s anxiety reached a peak. He didn’t want to be seen as he’d become, he didn’t want to explain, he didn’t want to… _talk_. What purpose would it serve? But it was part of the path he’d chosen – or maybe the path had chosen him. He’d do it. He had to. And so he got up, creaked his way into the shower, went to the church, picked at his breakfast and then it was time to meet Brother Raphael at the front door.

“Matthew,” he said. “Can I guide you to the car?”

“Sure.” Brother Raphael touched his arm to let him know where he was, and Matt slipped a hand in the crook of the offered elbow. “Thank you.” He tried not to resent that he needed this more often than not, now that tinnitus was a frequent companion in one ear. Thankfully only one, because he needed one working ear to use the computer he’d brought.

He eased into the car when Brother Raphael guided his hand to the door handle, and only a minute later they were on the road. The radio was on, some jazzy station with the volume turned low.

“You should know whatever you tell me will remain fully between you and me, as per my oath as a physician. If you’d rather another doctor sees you, we can do that too. My position in the monastery is unconventional, and I know Father John thought it should be me because I know what our service to God entails, but ethically speaking… It should be whoever you’re most comfortable with.”

Matt smiled a little. “Is no one an option?”

“Oh, ha ha. No. But really, if you don’t mind my saying it, you need it and not only to become part of us.” Brother Raphael didn’t say anything for a while. Matt could hear the slight thump of his fingers on the wheel. “We have more than one type of healer, at the clinic. I work there as a doctor and a chaplain, but we also have dentists, ophthalmologists, gynecologists, psychologists… not every day, of course. But we try to meet the needs of the people we welcome.”

“That’s good.”

“It is. Mr Rand is very generous, and we’ve been able to replace all our old equipment too. He visits from time to time, hands-on kind of man. Interesting guy, too. He grew up in a Buddhist monastery of all places.”

“In a… do you mean Rand as in Danny Rand?”

“I know him as Mr Daniel Rand, owner of Rand Enterprises. Friend of yours?”

“Oh, um. No. He’s just… famous in New York.”

“Hm. So are you, I understand.” Matt’s fingers twitched. Did Brother Raphael know about Daredevil? And even if he didn’t, wasn’t Matt supposed to tell him about it anyway? “You’ve been involved in a few high-profile trials, right?”

“They never started that way,” Matt said. “We never planned it.” Well, maybe that was a lie; taking Frank Castle’s case couldn't have been low-profile. But he usually tried not to think too hard about that year.

“Oh, I can imagine. I remember the first Fisk one. Man, that was something.” As he got more comfortable, Brother Raphael’s voice was sliding into something more familiar. It reminded Matt of home. A home that wasn’t home anymore. “It was right when I was back at my parents’ for a few months after a mission with, uh, Doctors of the World, yes. My nephew kept telling me about a new local hero, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, he called him. Then he became Daredevil. The name was strange, for someone who was supposed to be a good guy. Wonder what’s become of him – he was active for years, about 20 maybe? He took breaks sometimes, but sounds like he’s disappeared for good now. Haven’t heard about him for a couple years. I guess they get old like we all do, right?”

“Right,” Matt croaked.

“You’re from the Kitchen too, yes? Ever met him? My nephew said he saw him a couple times, jumping around from rooftop to rooftop. Crazy stuff.”

“Not very legal, though.”

“Ah, yes. Fair enough. You’re a lawyer, you'd say that. Hope he’s not dead, anyway.” Brother Raphael put his turn signal on and slowed down. “We’re almost there.”

He parked the car and soon was guiding Matt in the building – low, with big echoing rooms and corridors and people greeting each other all around them. Matt focused inwards and tried to tune it all out, to only feel his own breathing, his own heartbeat.

“Right! Here we are,” Brother Raphael said. He led Matt into a seat and went to wash his hands in a little room adjacent to his office. “There’s a curtained off area behind you to your left, if you want some privacy to take your clothes off.”

“It’s fine.”

“All right.” The sound of little wheels on linoleum, then a computer fan starting up. “Anything you’d like to tell me before we move on to the physical?”

“No, I… you’ll see. It’s easier.”

“Okay, as long as you’re comfortable.”

Matt untied his laces without fumbling too much, pulled his sweater off, then started on the buttons of his shirt before standing up. He was grateful Brother Raphael wasn’t asking if he needed help and let him set the pace. He knew Matt did these things on his own everyday, and let him be. So there was that, Matt thought. _I’m not entirely an invalid yet. Not yet._ Then Matt stepped out of his shoes and was about to untie his drawstring when Brother Raphael finally spoke.

“You don’t need to take everything off.”

Matt put a hand on the back of the chair for balance as he stepped out of his pants. “I probably do. I don’t know what it all looks like, obviously, but…” He didn’t move his hand once he was standing there in his underwear, shivering slightly. He wasn’t cold, but he could feel the weight of Brother Raphael’s gaze on him.

“Ah, yes. I… see.” The wheels squeaked a little and the chair creaked when Brother Raphael stood up. Matt felt his warmth come closer. “Would you like to sit on the exam table?”

He guided him a few steps back when Matt nodded. He couldn't speak.

“So, uh, that’s… impressive. I am going to touch you. Tell me if it’s uncomfortable, all right?” Another nod. “Okay, can you move your arm – yes, thank you. Does it hurt when I do this? Wow, this looks like… hm. Hmm.” It went on for a while, and Brother Raphael looked him over very carefully. He tested his reflexes, checked his ears, manipulated several joints that he must have thought were particularly stiff. Matt let him do it all, and tried not to think of the conversation to come.

“Well,” he said when he was done. “I wasn’t expecting that. I don’t know what I was expecting, but not several gunshot wounds, obvious blade injuries, and was that an arrow? And you’ve dislocated this shoulder several times, right?”

“Both,” Matt whispered.

“Right. But this one,” he said while touching his right shoulder, “has severe instability.”

“Yes.”

“Do you do strengthening exercises?”

“I…” Matt shook his head. “I used to train a lot, but not anymore. I can’t. I don’t have the muscles to stabilize it, now.”

“There are still things that could help.” Matt shrugged, gingerly. “So. Just from this examination, I can tell you've had quite a lot of fractures, and some didn’t heal quite right. I suspect ligament and cartilage damage too, right?”

“Right.”

“Anything else?”

“I, um. One ear doesn’t work right, and I can lose my balance easily. Been a mess since an accident.”

“Accident. Is that what we’re calling it, now?” There was no blame in Brother Raphael's voice. Gentle teasing, at most. Matt bowed his head; it all felt too much.

“Car accident. Had been hit in the head before, but this time my hearing never fully came back all right. It’s, uh. Unreliable, now.”

“ ‘This time.’ _This time_ wouldn’t happen to mean, say, about two, two and a half years ago? Three, tops?”

“Yeah.”

“Lots of car accidents in New York. It’s a shame.”

“Big city,” Matt said.

“Uh huh. You know,” and Brother Raphael’s voice was too casual to bode well, “you’re the right build and age. To be him.”

“Him?”

“Daredevil.”

Matt didn’t panic, he didn’t. He knew this could, would happen. He was in control, he’d chosen this, and he’d choose to tell Father John in his own time. On his own terms. It didn’t matter anyway, did it? It didn’t. He was fine. He was safe. He’d like to get out, get some air, where was the door? He slid down the table and felt for something, anything around him. There was nothing. Nothing. Why was there nothing?

“…ew,” a voice said. “Matthew. Can you hear me?”

“Can’t… can’t…” Wheezing sounds. Were they coming from him?

“...going to touch you now. Nod if you underst...”

Matt nodded, but he still jumped when two hands settled on his shoulders, pushed him back on the table. It was lower than before, his feet touched the floor. Pressure on the back of his head; he followed it.

“Breathe with me,” he heard. “Come on, Matthew. Breathe with me.”

He tried, he tried so hard. He wanted to cry, he wanted to yell, but he didn’t have enough air yet. Little by little, everything calmed down. There was something over his back, something tight and scratchy. He reached out and ran his fingers over it.

“It’s a blanket. You’re mostly naked, and I don’t want you to be cold.” Matt pushed it down. “Not cold?”

“Too rough,” he said.

“Really?” Brother Raphael moved a little and whistled. “Wow. Your skin is all red. Are you allergic to wool?”

“No, I, uh.” Breathe in, breathe out. “I’m sensitive to things. Touch, smells. Hearing is touch and go these days. Not sight, obviously.”

“Is that a problem? Scratch that, it is. When you say sensitive, does that mean _hyper_ sensitive? Do you get headaches from strong smells, things like that?” Brother Raphael stepped away and came back. “I’m going to put some cream on – wow, you’ve got a rash now. Cold cream okay?” Matt nodded. “Can’t imagine the sheets we’re provided with at the monastery don’t hurt you too.”

“It’s fine.”

“Try again.” Brother Raphael’s hands worked the cream into his skin, and Matt tried not to flinch away from the cold.

“I don’t need special treatment.”

“Sure, but we don’t sleep on nails or wear horsehair shirts all the time. You shouldn't either. We’ll get you something softer.”

Matt opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t know what to say.

“Look, I’ll make it a prescription, all right? Whether you like it or not.” Brother Raphael bumped Matt’s hands with his clothes. “Put your clothes on before you start shivering. I’m cold just looking at you.”

“Thank you,” Matt said. He didn’t know what else to say.

“So,” Brother Raphael said after Matt was dressed and in the chair again. “That’s you. That’s… really you.”

“See? Not dead.” Although Matt wished he were, sometimes. He kept that to himself, for now. “I thought I’d be, by now. And here I am.”

“Here you are, thank the Lord. But that does explain, well. Everything else.”

“Usually people are surprised at the blind thing.”

“It takes all kinds. And really, some details make it seem pretty obvious, in retrospect.”

“They say hindsight’s 20/20. Not that I’d know.”

“Did you just make a blind joke?”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“No. It makes me glad.” Brother Raphael sat on his chair. It creaked a little. Matt wondered how old it was. “So I guess I don’t need to ask where all your injuries come from. What kind of rehab have you done so far?” Matt shook his head. “Well, we’ll have to see what can be done. A physiotherapist is here twice a week, and we can get an orthopedic doctor a couple times a month. May want to do surgery on your shoulder, I don’t know. And you have nerve damage, I think, maybe even the spine…? You should see a neurologist.” More humming, questions about why he didn’t eat much, and a dietitian was added to the list.

Brother Raphael kept typing, and Matt felt overwhelmed. He didn’t want to see so many doctors. He didn’t want to see any doctors, at all. He didn’t want to explain, he didn't want to be examined, he didn't want to be prodded and poked and cut open, he didn’t even want to be touched. He shrank a little in his chair. He couldn’t get away, but he wanted to. He let his head fall forward. He didn't want Brother Raphael to see his face.

“Matthew. You’re in pain. You don’t have to be. We can do something.” Wheels, shoes. Squeak, squeak. Brother Raphael came in front of him and leaned against the desk. “God doesn’t want this,” he said. “God doesn’t want you, or anyone, to suffer. Why do _you_ want to?”

“I…” Then he couldn't go on. He didn’t _want_ to, it was just…

“I’m listening.”

“It can be controlled,” Matt finally whispered. “It can be a weapon.”

“You don’t need to be a weapon any more, Matthew.”

“Then what?” He remembered Stick. He’d fought his fight to the end. Whatever else you could say about him, he’d died for his cause. “I can meditate. Drugs make you weak, they dull the senses, they… no. I don’t want any more doctors.”

“Do you truly believe that?” Matt raised his head. “It sounds like something you’ve been repeating to yourself. Maybe something you’ve been taught?”

“I didn’t become who I was by watching kung fu movies.”

“I can well imagine.” Matt’s right ear was buzzing, and he tilted his head a little. A few birds chirping outside, voices further up in the corridor. He couldn't make out what they were saying, not with only one working ear. “How did you, then?” Traffic outside. A large truck, regular cars. Everything sounded a bit muffled. “Matthew.”

Deep breath. _Focus on what you_ can _perceive._ In, out. “Yes.”

“Your body, at least, tells me a story of multiple, repeated traumas. What about the rest of you?”

“I’m f…” No. No lies. “It’s my normal.”

“But?”

“I, uh. I’ve been told. Not just the body.” Foggy had seen him through decades of highs and lows. He’d urged him to get help so many times, it had almost become a joke.

“And do you agree with that assessment?”

Matt shrugged. “It’s my normal.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Is there a history of mental illness in your family?”

“I’m not crazy.”

“No.” Brother Raphael waited.

“Yeah, there is,” Matt finally whispered.

“All right. Matthew, you will need to address this. For yourself, not just because you will never become a monk otherwise. The monastery is not a refuge, or therapy, or a place to hide. It is _hard_. You eat with your Brothers, you pray with your Brothers, you work with your Brothers. If you bring in too many issues, they become everyone’s; and then our duty to God is affected. The entire community suffers.” Brother Raphael sighed. “I think you know all of this, and I think you know what you need.”

Matt wanted his glasses back on now, he could feel the wetness gathering in his eyes and he wanted to hide it. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t plead his case; his voice would break and betray him. And he couldn’t really deny any of it.

“I’m not asking you to leave, or recommending that Father John kick you out. Not for now. You came to us in your hour of need, and we will assist you. But healing should be your first duty, to yourself and to God. You have worked hard to help others, but now it is time to help yourself.”

It was terrifying. Matt was terrified. He made what he hoped were appropriate noises, noises that meant _yes_ and _of course_ and _I will_ whenever Brother Raphael suggested something – an appointment with such and such specialist, a promise to do some simple strengthening exercises for his shoulder, a visit to a mental health clinic to determine his needs.

He spent the rest of the morning in prayer in the chapel and when Brother Raphael led a small service he took communion, then they shared the simple meal Brother Ezekiel had packed for them in the morning.

“I’ve told the reception desk to call a few people in Hopewood who might need your help and ask them to try to come this afternoon. You can be useful, Matthew. You can be of help to many.”

Maybe, Matt hoped, it would feel more relevant that what he’d been doing lately in Hell’s Kitchen. Maybe he could make a difference again, even if it was for just one person. He couldn’t be just a burden. He couldn't.

 

Brother Raphael drove them back to the monastery in time for Vespers. The soft jazz music was on again, and they didn’t talk for a while. Matt enjoyed the quiet; he’d talked too much today – to Brother Raphael in the morning, to people in need of legal counsel in the afternoon. He'd felt a little like he had when they’d first started Nelson and Murdock all those years ago, helping those who couldn't afford a lawyer. This time, there wasn’t anyone to point out pies didn’t pay the bills. He smiled a little at the memory. They’d had so much hope, back then. Hope for the future, hope they’d change people's lives for the better. Then Matt's world had imploded, and there had been so much fighting – in the courts, with Foggy, in the streets. With himself, ultimately. In the end, the world had gotten smaller: Foggy’s family, his law practice, the church. Going back home and ignoring the chest in the corner where he still kept the suit, the batons. He’d never managed to get rid of it all, even if he could never use them again.

“Here,” Brother Raphael said.

Something landed on Matt’s lap, and he took it. Tissues. “Thank you.” He took one out and wiped his face. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Matt shook his head. He didn’t really have an answer. “I would like to see some people again. Do a follow-up, help them fill in some forms.”

“Sure. You’ll be coming back again to the clinic for the appointments I made for you, anyway.” Turn signal, gravel path. They were almost there. “Physiotherapist and dietitian on Friday morning.”

“Already?”

“They agreed to come for the whole day instead of only the afternoon. Don’t make that face, Matthew, it’s not only because of you. But you can certainly benefit from it, too.”

“All right.” Danika would be relieved, he knew. She lived a few blocks from the clinic, raised kids by herself, and struggled to make ends meet. And now, she’d said, her entire building was about to be sold and all the inhabitants evicted because someone wanted to build fancy, expensive housing there and that meant losing her cheap apartment, and moving far away from her work and her kids’ school. He’d given her some pointers on how to fight, but if he could actually build her case… “I can be of use, I think.”

“That’s good, then.”

Brother Raphael parked the car, and they made their way to the church. The evening stretched out in front of them, and Matt was looking forward to losing himself in prayer again. It was a time when he could forget everything and disappear into something bigger, greater than himself, and he needed that.

Then dinner came. They ate in silence, and not having to answer questions or make small talk was good, until he realized he’d have to speak with Brother Anthony soon. He had to. Soon, he decided. In a few days. He needed to regroup first, he needed to be ready. It had been hard enough with Brother Raphael, and he hadn’t really had to _say_ anything. But before the end of the week, he’d come clean.

 

Thursday. He decided it would be on Thursday. After the morning services and breakfast, he spent a couple hours with Brother Anthony brushing up on his Latin. Monks were supposed to learn it, but he’d studied it both at St Agnes then later in law school. When he’d seen all the Latin there, he'd figured it might come in handy. He’d thought he’d have forgotten everything, but to his surprise it came back quickly.

“It must be annoying to have to read everything out loud,” Matt said. Some stuff could be made accessible on his computer and the old Braille reader in the office they’d assigned him, but not everything.

“Eh, we’ll get Braille books soon enough. This, learning Latin, is something that gives many of us a lot of grief,” Brother Anthony said. “I’m only glad to see it’s not the case for you.”

“It’s coming back more quickly than I dared hope, yes. Especially…” Matt braced himself. Here it came. “Especially with all the blows to the head I took, in a former life.” He could almost feel Brother Anthony refrain from asking questions. “You told me once… you told me I was a fighter. I used to be, yes. In a very real way.” He spread out his hands on the desk between them. “You felt old breaks there. It’s true not all of them healed quite right. I didn’t take as good care of myself as I should have. It wasn’t always possible. Hence, well. The state I’m in now. I don’t know if everything could have been avoided, but who knows? Maybe some of it.”

“Were you a boxer, then?”

Matt almost laughed. “No. My father was, though. I, uh. I was – I don’t know if you’ve heard of him. Me. I was.” Deep breath. He had to say it. He had to come clean. “I was Daredevil. The Man in the Mask, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen – take your pick. I never chose any of those names, but – that’s who I was.”

Brother Anthony kept silent. Elevated heartbeat, slightly faster breathing, and stillness. Then, “You hit people? Under the name of the Devil?”

“Well I… yes, I did. I used to.”

“Matthew…” There was such disappointment in his tone.

“That's not what you were expecting.”

“No. I was thinking, uh, something more usual. An affair with a married woman, maybe a child you never recognized, or maybe some embezzlement or being a career criminal of some kind; at worst someone’s accidental death on your conscience – wait. Did you ever kill someone?”

“Not that I know. I had friends, I had spiritual guidance.”

Brother Anthony said nothing for a while. Matt waited for – he didn’t know what. Nothing good. His past had caught up with his body, and now it was catching up with the rest of him. “I will pray, Matthew. This is a lot. I need guidance, myself.”

He stood up and left, and Matt didn’t find the courage in him to follow. He didn’t feel like he could take communion; he didn’t feel he could even set foot in the church. He got his rosary out with slightly shaky hands, rested them on the table and set his forehead on the wooden beads. He needed to pray, too. He needed hope, he needed an open door, he needed help; but it all seemed to slip through his fingers again. _Hail Mary_ , he thought. _Our Father._ He prayed.

 

He didn’t know how much time had elapsed, but Father John was coming in the small office. He recognized the slight limp.

“Matthew,” he said.

“Father.”

“You’ve broken Brother Anthony, I fear.”

“I am sorry, Father. I can leave, if this is best for the community.”

“Brother Anthony doesn’t get to decide. He said, however, I should talk to you. That there were things I should know.”

“Yes.”

“I’m here. I will not run away.”

“I don’t think Brother Anthony expected he would need to, uh. Leave.”

“He _ran away_ , son. We’re supposed to help, and he didn’t.”

“I don’t make it easy, Father.” The rosary beads were smooth and familiar in Matt’s hands, a comfort he needed in that moment. “I wanted to tell you, I just…”

“You needed to wait.”

“Yes. But I can’t any longer, I realize that.”

“I am ready, Matthew. Whatever it is you have to say.”

Warm, dry hands fell on Matt’s. Their weight was a comfort, too. This was it, then. This was it. “On Monday, Brother Raphael examined me, as you’d asked. He found out then, as I knew he would. I carry the scars from the years I spent fighting. I, uh. I have a violent past. I used to beat up people, when justice couldn’t touch them. I tried, I tried so hard – I tried to resist the urge, Father, I really did. But I’d been trained, and I heard people crying for help, constantly; and I… I couldn't do nothing, even if it went against everything – my father’s wishes, my belief in the law as a defense attorney, my friendships, my… everything, Father.” Matt stopped before all the words jumbled together in one long, hitched breath.

“You fought. You fought for what you believed in? To help?”

“At first, that’s what I thought. But – I enjoyed it too, Father. The blood, the pain. Giving and receiving it. It felt right and wrong at the same time. There is too much violence in me, Father, too much rage. Father Lantom – he died a long time ago. He used to tell me, _channel that anger, don’t let it guide you._ I’m not sure I was successful.”

“I assume you did all this under an alias?”

“I didn’t choose it, but it fit. At first they called me, the Man in the Mask, but soon I was Daredevil. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. I embraced it. I was the Devil, and I exacted my own brand of justice on them under his name. I realize how wrong that is, Father, I do. I knew it then. But I still didn’t stop until I couldn't do it anymore.”

Father John kept quiet, but he didn’t move away. His hand stayed on Matt’s; his heartbeat remained steady.

“I know this is bad.”

“It is what it is, Matthew. I understand that some of our Brothers would be shocked. This is not the kind of thing people usually come here to run away from, and some of us do take the Devil very literally. Others, more as a metaphor or a cautionary tale… we’re a mixed bunch here, too.” Father John’s fingers tightened around Matt’s. “Maybe you should consider coming clean about it tonight during the chapter, see how they answer.”

“Yes, Father.”

“We will not kick you out, Matthew. You came to us for help, and you shall have it. Whether your future is here or not, I can’t say; but meanwhile…” Father John stood up. “You skipped lunch. Will you come to the kitchen with me?”

“Thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“Brother Raphael didn’t say much to me as per his oath as a physician, but he did say that you needed to eat more.”

Matt almost laughed. “He’s scheduled an appointment with a dietitian, actually. Tomorrow.”

“Well then. Come, have a little something; a sandwich, a banana. I’m sure we can find some food you’ll stomach. You’re skin and bones, Matthew, and I fear if you fall down from malnutrition there’s only going to be rattling sounds and nothing else.”

This time Matt laughed, and he let Father John guide him to the kitchen. The chapter was a few hours away, and he could probably do with some energy. Especially if he needed to pack his bag after that.

 

The chapter went about as well as Matt had expected. Brother Anthony greeted him in a voice empty of all the warmth it had held before, Brother Raphael sat next to him, and then it started. Father John stood before the monks and said Matt wanted to make an announcement, and then there was only silence. The expectant and curious kind, just like when he was about to make his closing speech during a trial. He could feel tension, curiosity. Brother Anthony’s change in behavior couldn’t have escaped them.

Matt squeezed the cane in his hands and pushed himself up. He was grateful for Brother Raphael’s hand under his elbow, but then he shuffled forward a little and turned around so he’d stand on his own in front of all of them. He could do this.

“I,” he said. “I am a lawyer. I wanted to help people, I wanted to do some good. I believed in the law. I was… idealistic, then. I am a lawyer, but I also used to be a… vigilante. I used to go out at night, and hit people with my fists. Those fists.” He peeled a hand off his cane and curled the fingers inwards. “I was good at it. I’d been trained as a child, and when I grew up… there’s no excuse, I know. I used that training and I hurt people. For many years.”

Heartbeats were faster now, and it felt like the temperature in the room was increasing too. Maybe it was the fear in him. He felt fear, now. He was afraid, for himself. Back then, he never was; he would jump in and just… fight. But now, he couldn't fight, and the fear was all-consuming.

“I thought you’d been blind since childhood,” Brother Ezekiel said.

“I have.”

“I doesn’t make sense,” Brother Ezekiel mumbled. “Blind? No.”

“Did you have some other name, then?” Brother Paul.

“I did.” The whispers died. “I heard them call me The Man in the Mask, at first. After that…”

“The Devil!”

“What?”

“He fought in the name of the Devil!” That was Brother Patrick. “That was your name, right? The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, Daredevil – I remember!”

After that, it turned ugly. Brother Raphael and Father John bracketed him and kept the others away, and Matt hunched his shoulders in a bit. He couldn't actually make himself smaller, but he wished he could, right then. He’d upset their balance, he’d upset their world, and he’d broken the peace between the Brothers. He could just hear Stick’s mocking laughter.

“We can’t have someone who calls themselves the Devil among us!” Brother Patrick said.

“God is testing us, and we must show an open mind to those who repent.” That was Brother Stephen, who always tried to show how ready he was for any and all of God’s challenges, from a broken coffee machine to achy knees in the morning.

All the monks were loudly speaking at each other now, from the holier-than-thou to the horrified, from those who didn’t believe him to those who feared the Devil, from the gentle souls who wanted to understand how a blind man who had difficulties walking now could have jumped from rooftop to rooftop until a few years ago to the bitter voice of Brother Anthony.

“The Devil can’t ever become one of us!”

“We’ve had all kinds of people in our midst, Brother. Shouldn't we show forgiveness and compassion too, like the Lord teaches us?”

“He would still be hitting people in the name of Satan if his health hadn’t failed!”

“Whatever the reason, he’s repented, right?”

Had he, though? Matt didn’t know. He knew it had all been legally indefensible and morally questionable at best, but had it truly been wrong? He didn’t know. He’d never know, he suspected. Sometimes he’d done good, sometimes he’d done bad. Sometimes, he hadn’t done enough – _half-measures_ , Frank used to say. But he’d also always made sure Matt wouldn't ever kill, when they’d worked together. _Stupid ninja shit_ , Jessica claimed, but then she’d asked him to show her some moves so she could fight better.

And then there had been Foggy’s anger and disappointment, when he’d found out. Claire keeping her distance, Maggie sewing him up, Fisk coming back again and again because he couldn't end it. Him. It was all a mess in his head and in his ears and he would have fallen if Father John hadn’t caught him.

“Come, Matthew. Let’s have a seat.”

Brother Raphael kept him company while his shaky legs rested and Father John went back to talk to the monks, and Matt tried to focus on the birds chirping behind him, on the sound of the rougher fabric of Brother Raphael’s habit against his own plain clothes. Matt didn’t want to listen in to what the Superior was saying.

Brother Raphael patted Matt’s wrist. “Your afternoon is full of appointments, tomorrow. You will help many people.”

“I can’t do much yet; some of those people need more time than an hour or two. But I am glad to give what I can.”

“Having someone care and help means a lot to them, Matthew.”

“I don’t know how long I can do that, now.”

“Don’t underestimate Father John. He will remind them of the power of love and compassion, and our first duty to God. Even if you never become one of us, you are still welcome. You are working with us, praying with us, eating with us. This is important.”

Matt hoped it was. He hoped he’d feel useful again. But even after Father John came back and said all was well, even after he was all alone in his bed and trying and failing to pray, he knew. He’d never find peace, here or elsewhere. He’d never escape who he was. He had the Devil in him, like a true Murdock boy; and the Devil would never let him be. Never. Not until he died, and probably not even then.

 

The next morning was strange. The monks were silent as usual when shuffling to Vigils and then Lauds, the breakfast was quiet too; and yet… he could feel it. The tension, the huffs, the quick steps taken away from him. Not all the monks, but some. Enough. He wasn’t welcome in their midst, now. He’d broken the peace.

Oh, there were still some who would sit next to him in church, or squeeze his arm as a greeting; but most of them didn’t. He’d created a rift in the community, and that was the worst thing he could have done. He’d go to the clinic today, honor the appointments made for the people like Danika who needed him, and then he’d pack his bag and get a cab to the train station and go – somewhere. Maybe not New York. Nothing awaited him there, no one needed him.

Brother Raphael drove them in silence, and Matt let the car’s vibration gently rock him into a somewhat meditative state. Where could he go? Who could he be? He had no idea. He didn’t really care. He let the dietitian talk at him about his needs, didn’t mention that he couldn't follow his advice anyway – food had either no taste at all or too much of it, his stomach couldn't handle the amounts he recommended, textures were all wrong. Everything was wrong. He knew he was not eating enough, but he wasn’t hungry anyway. More would just make him throw up. So he just said yes, nodded, agreed to the plan the dietitian drew for him, and then went to see the physiotherapist.

He expected the same kind of deal, but she didn’t let him pretend anything. She examined him, explained exercises, manipulated him, made him repeat the exercises. By the end of it, he was shaking with the exertion.

And then she said, “I’ll see you next week, Mr Murdock.”

Matt didn’t want to lie, but he doubted he’d be there. He opted for a “Thank you,” and went (fled) straight for the chapel. He thought she might have wanted to add something, but he couldn't stay. He didn’t want to hear it, anyway. He needed to be alone and unprodded; he needed to regroup before taking communion.

Brother Raphael found him there, kneeling on a prie-dieu and pretending nothing hurt.

“Matthew,” he said. “Did it go well?”

“Yes.” What else was he going to say, anyway?

“Hm. I’m sure. Can you stand up?” He didn’t wait for an answer, and put a hand under Matt’s elbow. “There. Let us celebrate the Eucharist, all right?”

Matt nodded and let the ritual wash over him, let the words and the wafer and the incense soothe him, even for just a little while. It was just enough to tackle the afternoon’s appointments with better focus and hopefully do some actual good.

 

Brother Anthony came to him before Compline, his steps assured and unhurried.

“Matt,” he said. “I want to apologize. I reacted badly, and I shouldn’t have. My duty to you, a fellow human being, as your Novice Master… I was wrong.”

“I understand. It’s fine.”

“It’s not. I let my fear and surprise control my actions, and this is not acceptable. Matt,” he added. “I am not fit to help guide you on your path.”

“It’s not anything I haven’t thought before. I have questioned myself a lot, friends have questioned my actions a lot, and with reason. What I did…”

“What’s done is done, Matt. You tried to do good with what God gave you, and that is something I should have acknowledged from the start. Instead, I rejected you because of it.”

Matt wondered if Brother Anthony had come because of Father John or on his own counsel, but it didn’t really matter. His heart beat true, at least. And even if it didn’t, forgiveness – it was a virtue. It was God’s path, the path Matt had chosen to follow. “It’s all right. I am looking forward to continuing the Latin lessons,” he said.

“So am I.” Brother Anthony sounded relieved and sincere. “So am I,” he repeated, and he led Matt into the church for the service.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to pack his bag tonight, then? If he had to, it would be quick. Leaving would be – not easy, but quick. One day at a time, then. He’d take things one day at a time, and put his faith in God and his fate in His hands.

 

Three weeks later and to his own surprise, Matt was still at St Yves. He felt more settled in the monastery, more accepted. Most monks had gotten over their initial surprise and in some cases open hostility; and while Matt knew Father John and Brother Raphael were behind most of their change of mind, it still was a relief.

Twice a week, he went to the clinic with Brother Raphael, and he tried to accept all the prodding and examining that happened there in the mornings. More strengthening exercises, more questions about his diet, and now there was talk of surgery. He tried to ignore it and the looming mental health appointment, and he still refused the pain meds, but thankfully the afternoons didn’t leave him too much time to feel sorry for himself.

Danika’s case, in particular, was a challenge. They were up against a rather nebulous company with enough money to have a legal team that Matt didn’t think he could win against, and it felt like whatever he did they’d find another loophole to wriggle through and go on with their plans. He’d found hints that this company had been buying land around St Yves, too, and he suspected they were waiting to make a move on the monastery itself. The entire county was sitting on rich underground resources that new prospection and mining techniques had recently made available, after all. The best he could do was to slow down their schedule and earn Danika more time to find a solution, and maybe get her and the people in her building some sort of compensation, however small. It would always be welcome, he knew. They were not rich folks.

So, he called people, he asked questions, he got documents sent to him, he even visited the building with Danika and met her little boys. But it all came to a head four weeks into the case, when a voice he hadn’t heard in months almost made him drop his cane as he was leaving the chapel with Brother Raphael.

“What the fuck is this place?” Jessica Jones. It was Jessica. What was she doing here? “If I see another Jesus on the wall, I’m going to snap. Hey, you, seen any lawyer around here?”

“Um,” the receptionist said.

Matt left Brother Raphael’s arm and tapped his way to desk near the waiting room. “Hi, Jess.”

There was a moment of silence, then, “Shit.”

“Do I look that bad?”

“Worse. I’m looking for – no. _You’re_ the lawyer who works here a few days a week, aren’t you.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you’d gone to hide in a monastery. That’s what Nelson said, anyway.”

“Well, he is, but he also volunteers here.” Brother Raphael joined them. “I’m Raphael,” he said. Matt could sense him reaching out with his hand, and after a tense moment Jessica shook it.

“I’m not hiding,” Matt mumbled. They ignored him.

“Jessica Jones. I’m a PI.”

“I’ve heard about you, Ms Jones. I used to be a New Yorker too.”

“Great. Small talk done? I need to borrow him.”

“Jess, I’m not, um.” Not able to work with her as they used to. Not able to follow, not able to see, not able to be of much help beyond sitting at a desk with assistive technology to help him.

“Client of mine facing an eviction, retraced the paperwork back to a company that also has dealings here. Danny said he’d heard of something similar happening around this place he’s funding. Ring any bell?”

Matt sighed. Yes, it was of course ringing several bells. “I can show you my files, but I have an appointment in an hour.”

“Fine.”

Matt turned around and made for the small office they’d found him, but Brother Raphael stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Matt came up blank. “Lunch, Matt. You’re forgetting lunch.” Oh.

“He’ll eat later. We got a job to do. Where’s your office?”

Matt smiled a little. Some things never changed. Some people. “Follow me,” he said, and this time he was the one to lead the way.

He opened the door and Jessica’s leather jacket creaked a little when she sat down. The sound was familiar, even if every jacket made a slightly different one. This one was fairly new. He heard her shift, cross her legs.

“Planning to be a monk now?”

“Why not?”

“Not my business, I guess.” She sighed. “People are worried, back in the city.”

“Did you come to lecture me, or for your case?”

“I didn’t know you were here.” She wasn’t lying. “What do you have on the Vansk company, then?”

He had a lot.

They’d been comparing notes for an hour when there was a small knock on the door.

“Hello.” It was Danika. “Brother Raphael said I should bring you this?”

“This?”

“Oh, sorry.” She’d forgotten he couldn’t see. Again. Whatever she was holding smelled like food, though; so he had a pretty good idea of what Brother Raphael had sent. “He said you were working over your lunch break, and that you were not supposed to skip meals.”

Matt tried to appreciate it, he really did. People looking out for him, people caring for him. He could feel Jessica trying to refrain from laughing out loud. “Thank you,” he said. “Danika, This is Jessica Jones, she’s working on a case similar to yours but in New York. Looks like the same company is involved. Jessica, this is the woman I told you about.” It all reminded him of his younger self, starting out his first firm with Foggy and trying to help an old Latina woman keep her home. He hoped it would end better this time.

“My client is in the same situation,” Jessica said. “We’re hoping to find a better angle with more heads on this.”

“We’ll get them, Mr Murdock.” A little thump, Danika had put the food on the desk.

“We’re doing our best. Can Ms Jones stay for our appointment? She may see something I haven’t.”

“You generally don’t see much, Murdock,” Jessica said. There was polite disapproval radiating from where Danika had sat. “What? He’s blind.” More disapproval, less politeness.

“It’s okay, Danika. Jess and I have known each other a long time.”

“Don't tell me you’ve stopped making blind jokes.”

Matt smiled. “Oh, no. Never.” Although he tried to curb it down in a professional context, now.

Danika still didn’t like it, but she let it go and they settled to work. She showed documents and messages she’d gathered from her neighbors and Jessica explained how her own client had managed to stall the Vansk people; and once the appointment was over Matt felt like they’d made real progress this time.

“It’s far from over,” Jessica said. “But at least we should get them to pay you something.”

“That’s a relief. I’ll tell the neighbors not to lose hope, then.”

“You do that, I’m going to snoop around here and see what I can find. I’ll let you know.”

Danika gathered her files and said her goodbyes, and then only Jessica remained. She didn’t say anything for a while, but Matt could feel the weight of her gaze on him.

“What?” he finally said.

“I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“It?” He tilted his head. “I’m better than I was. They make me do exercises, even.”

“Good for you. You went to _hide in a_ _monastery_. You didn’t warn anyone. What the fuck, Murdock? Couldn’t you, I don’t know, ask for help?”

“I did. I asked the monastery.” He heard Jessica’s exasperated huff, and her chair scraping against the floor.

“Whatever. I’m out, I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“Do you have a place to stay? I’m sure Father John – ”

“Danny booked a hotel for me, I’m not going to a place filled with self-righteous monks. That’s your thing, not mine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Matt stood up to walk her out, but before he’d made it to the door she’d thrown an arm around his shoulders to give him a rough squeeze and said in a strangely choked voice, “And eat that sandwich, okay? You need it,” before hurrying away. He remained standing there, reeling a little bit and wondering what had just happened, until his next appointment knocked on the door Jessica had left open.

He had work to do.

 

He didn’t hear again from Jessica until the next week. On Wednesday, after helping prepare the day’s meals in the kitchen, Matt had planned to spend an hour going over the past week’s Latin work to try and see what had stuck and what he needed to improve on, but he found himself in the church instead. He counted the pews until he reached the front one, then reached the quire and sat down on the first stall. _Lord, give me strength,_ he prayed. _I haven’t always been your best servant, but I want to do better, I want to be better. I want to serve. Oh Lord, give me strength._ He ended up on his knees as he usually did, head heavy on the arms he’d crossed over the wood in front of him. He prayed for a sign he was on the right path, a sign he was pleasing God, a sign telling that he would help Danika, at least. A sign he could still be of use. He prayed until heavy footsteps rang into the empty church.

They stopped a few feet away, and the smell of leather as well as the sound of her boots on the flagstones said it was Jessica. He lifted his head and turned his face in her direction. More or less.

“You can take a few more minutes,” she said. “World’s not ending quite yet, but I found something on our case that we should check.”

“I’m done.” As much as he could ever be. He tried to stand up but his legs had fallen asleep while he’d been kneeling and he almost fell down. Jessica caught him before he could crack his head on the stone, again. She kept silent, but he could hear things – her sharp intake of breath, the staccato of her heart. Could infer what she thought. “Thank you,” he said.

“How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know, a while?”

“Too long, Murdock. We got a job to do.”

He took her arm and she didn’t say anything when he stumbled on the step outside, just held his arm until he’d found his feet again.

“I’m sorry. Pins and needles.”

“Whatever.” She led him to the main building, then stopped. “We should go to the clinic. That’s where you keep your files, right? Do you need anything from here?”

“Permission to leave, for a start.”

“Ugh, monks.”

“Jessica…”

“Fine. Who should you ask?”

“The Superior, Father John. He should be in his office right now.”

“We’re wasting time.” He felt her move a little, probably looking around, then she strode away from him to – yes, Brother Gabriel was in the little shop and reception right by the entrance on Tuesday afternoons. She must have spotted him when she came in. “You,” she said one she was inside.

“Ms Jones, leaving already?”

Matt finally got to the shop himself and waited for Jessica to either terrify or anger Brother Gabriel. She’d mellowed over the years, but not that much.

“Yeah. Call your boss, tell him I’m taking Murdock here with me to Hopewood.”

“Um.” Brother Gabriel was going for surprise, it seemed.

“Come on, we’re saving widows and orphans here. Don’t waste our time, your fucking rules are already taking too long.”

“Father John can refuse, you know,” Matt pointed out.

“He better not. What, are you a prisoner here?”

“Obedience is a virtue.”

He could feel her reaching boiling point and Brother Gabriel probably could too. “I’ll just call him, right?”

“You do that,” Jessica said.

Her impatience was palpable, but soon enough Father John had come down to meet them and she must have looked fierce enough he acquiesced immediately. She mumbled something about a pointless waste of time and dragged more than led Matt across the yard in front of St Yves.

“Get in, Murdock.”

He reached out and yes, right in front of him, there was a car. “Didn’t know you could drive.”

“I’m not blind.”

“You can’t have everything.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hop in and buckle up, we have places to be.”

So he did.

 

Brother Raphael was rather surprised to see them that afternoon, but he welcomed them warmly anyway.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You’re a doctor, right?” Jessica asked.

“I am, yes.”

“Good. So can you tell me what can be done with these chemicals, in these quantities?” Matt heard the rustling of paper. She’d handed him a list, probably. “I found out they’re selling like crazy all over the county. Does that tell you something? Come on, help our investigation.”

“I’m representing the tenants,” Matt said. “Not doing an investigation.”

“Sure. Same difference. So?”

“Hm, I can’t be 100% positive, but it could be – look, come in my office, right? I have coffee. It’ll be more comfortable.”

Well, that wasn’t ominous at all.

Once they were in his office, Brother Raphael closed the door and shook the paper in his hand. “Ms Jones. When did you find this out?”

“This morning.”

“And when were these chemicals bought?”

“From what I gathered, over the weekend.”

“The tenants are in danger, then.”

There were 21 apartments in there, and all inhabited. “What kind of danger?” Matt asked.

“Poison.” Brother Raphael sighed. “If you mix these right, you can create a kind of poisonous gas. I saw its effects years ago, when I was on humanitarian aid missions. It was a new tool of fear then, and most countries have banned it in the years since. But people still know how to make it. It’s fairly easy if you have the right tools and know what you’re doing, and it can believably be blamed on bad maintenance, or an accident if traces are found. The ingredients used to be common in construction, before the regulations changed.”

“Fuck,” Jessica said.

“What does it do? Is it lethal?”

“For healthy adults, not usually, although there can be lasting lung and heart damage. For children, the elderly, or the sick…”

“We have to go, then. We have to warn them, get them out.”

“You’ll create a panic, Matthew.”

“No, he’s right,” Jessica said. “These people trust him, and if he says they should evacuate and not panic, they’ll do as he says. Then I can investigate the building; just tell me what to look for. Canisters? Blocked pipes? What?”

“Both. One of the worst methods is to put the solids at the bottom of a vent at any time, then whenever you’re ready pour the liquids over it. The reaction takes a couple hours, enough to get to a safe distance, and then – it spreads out. You can’t see it or smell it. Once you start coughing, it’s too late: you’ve been contaminated. In a building, using the AC can be pretty efficient.”

Matt went to the reception desk and asked Ann to warn St Yves he might not be able to be back quickly while Brother Raphael showed Jessica what to look for, and he wondered if they should call the police too. On the one hand, they didn’t have any proof yet, on the other… But had they been bought by Vansk? Danika didn’t trust them, for a start. He tapped his way back to Brother Raphael's office.

“You ready?” he asked Jessica.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

“Wait.” He reached out and found her arm. “Brother Raphael, if we’re not back in an hour…”

“I’ll call the sheriff directly. His deputies are not all reliable, but Ned’s a good guy.” His hand fell on Matt’s shoulder and squeezed. “Be safe, all right? Don’t take risks. If there’s anything suspicious, just get the people out and call Ned. If you don’t get him, call me.”

“We will,” Jessica said. Her tone of voice implied anything but, and Matt felt a little thrill in his gut. One he hadn’t felt in a long time, and that he had thought gone forever. It made him feel terrified and elated at the same time, and he didn’t know what to do with that.

“Murdock, you’re scaring me,” Jessica said once they were at her car.

“Me? Why?”

“You’re grinning like you’re about to smash heads in. Listen very carefully: you are _not_ to go off on your own and punch people. They’d kill you.”

“They can try,” he said. He could feel his smile now, the way his lips stretched further than they had in a long time and the anticipation in his veins, how nothing was hurting right now and how his fists, yes, his fists were itching. He felt ready to take on anything.

“Don’t get cocky, Murdock. I’m not bringing you back to New York in a casket.”

Cocky, him? Nah. Never.

The sound of the car door slamming shut was very satisfying.

Nothing sounded particularly unusual when they got out of the car, and Jessica confirmed it all looked pretty normal. They went in and explored the basement, and the pipes they found didn’t sound as empty as they should have when Matt tapped his cane against them.

“There’s something in there,” he said.

Jessica punched a pipe open and ripped a piece of metal off, and hissed. “Yeah, there is. We have to get everyone out.” Brother Raphael had warned them not to move anything they found in case it hadn’t been properly made, because then it could be unstable and explode; but as an extra precaution Jessica threw the metal sheet she’d torn off over it. Matt doubted it would do much to stop the liquids from reaching it, but it was better than nothing.

They went back up and knocked on a few doors, but no one was home on the first and second floor. Well, it was early yet, and most of them probably were at school or at work. If someone wanted to use the air vents or tamper with basement pipes, it was a good, quiet time to do so. By the time everyone was back, it would have spread everywhere.

Finally, on the third floor, they found Mrs Vanathasan. She was an old woman, living on her own now; and when she saw Matt she immediately invited them in.

“I’m sorry, we can’t,” he said. He heard Jessica’s sharp inhale, she was about to say something probably cutting and impatient and Mrs Vanathasan, the poor dear, wouldn’t understand why. “There’s a pest control team that’s coming in soon though, they’ve found a giant wasp nest in the crawlspaces and it’s a dangerous species. They’re evacuating the building before getting rid of it. It’s just a safety measure, Mrs Vanathasan.” Matt hoped she’d buy that he was the one to warn the building and not someone from the pest control team. “I offered to warn the tenants, since we know each other by now.” _Look at me, the harmless blind guy who lives with monks_.

“Aw, that’s sweet of you, Mr Murdock. Are you sure you don’t have time for some tea?”

“Just take your things and go, okay? We got other people to warn,” Jessica snapped. Matt tried not to sigh too loudly.

“Oh, um. Of course?” The poor old woman was a bit shocked, but she complied and asked them to come by the next day for that tea before leaving.

“You didn’t have to scare her, Jessica.”

“She was taking too much time. Look, can you finish on your own? We’re not fast enough.”

“Yeah, sure.” The elevator was working, so stairs wouldn’t be an issue.

Mat heard her quick footsteps going up the stairs, and focused on his job. He found Mr Marquette, stuck home with a broken arm and his dog; the Madeiras’ kids with their sitter Jeannie; a very sleepy Mr Belaid, who worked nights and opened the door after fumbling with his lock. Matt got them all out, and listened for any sign of life left. There was a… cat, probably, in one empty apartment, and Jessica’s heartbeat was right above him on the roof. He found the ladder she’d used and made his way up, more slowly than he’d have liked.

“Everybody’s out,” he said once he was outside. “There’s a cat left on the fourth floor though. Can you get it out?” She was good at lockpicking, he remembered. Or, at least, at breaking locks open.

“Who cares about a cat?”

“Their owner.”

“We got other problems, Murdock.” She kicked something, and it made a metallic sound.

“Canisters?”

“Empty canisters, and blocked vents. I opened then again, but it won’t do much. It’s started.” They were too late. Shit, they were too late.

“Maybe you’ve covered the box downstairs well enough.”

“Yeah, no. Get away from here, Murdock. There’s nothing you can do.”

“And you? What can you do?”

She sighed. “Get the fucking cat out, then leave.”

At least they’d gotten everyone out, Matt thought. They went down to the fourth floor and Jessica broke the lock he pointed her to so she could get the cat, and Matt smiled at the yelps and screams from both cat and woman coming from inside. After a few seconds a cat ran out shrieking and hurled itself down the stairs and Jessica followed, smelling a little like blood.

“Beast scratched me,” she said. “What are you still doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

“Idiot.” She pushed the elevator button, but nothing happened this time. “Shit.”

“Stairs it is, then.” He was feeling – well, not _fine_ , but good enough. No one would die, not today. Not on their watch.

He started wheezing two floors below.

“Get out, Jessica. I’ll be just after you.”

“No.”

“Jessica, it’s starting to spread.”

“I know. I’ll carry you downstairs. Don’t make that face, Murdock. I left you to die once and I’m not doing it again.”

“I – ”

Matt was almost relieved when someone screamed above them.

“What the hell?” Jessica pushed him forward. “You go down, I’ll go see who’s up there.”

Matt clenched his jaw, but didn’t say anything. It was the logical thing to do. He couldn't do anything here. Not _anything_. He was too slow, and his lungs were already burning… all he could do was get away. Not be a worry, not be a burden.

He clung to the handrail and stumbled down, his folded cane dangling from his wrist and one ear – the working one, of course – on what was happening on the roof. Jessica was fighting someone – several someones, and they were angry at her and Matt. Asking where the other guy, where _he_ was; asking who they thought they were to interfere with them… they must have been keeping an eye on the building from somewhere nearby.

He finally reached the first floor and made for the exit, but more noises coming from outside made him throw himself in the corner, away from the glass door. People were right outside, arguing. Breathing was getting harder.

“Mr Murdock told us to get out! I’m not going back in!” It was Mrs Vanathasan.

“He lied to you, Ma’am.” Raspy voice – a heavy smoker. “There is no pest control coming. You must get back inside, now.”

“What if I want to go get some groceries?”

“Maybe later, Ma’am, but for now you must get back inside.”

“I don’t know you, and I don’t trust you! If our lawyer said to get out, we stay out.” Oh. Danika.

“Where’s my cat?” That was a child’s voice.

“I’m sure Mr Tubby’s fine, honey.”

“Would you please get back inside?” A different voice, but their heartrate was up, like Heavy Smoker’s.

“Can someone explain what’s happening?”

“They’re Vansk!” that was Mr Belaid. He was fully awake, now. “Look under their coats, they’ve got Vansk shirts all right!”

A chorus of _Damn, Get out of here, Fuck you, Let us be, You assholes_ ; and then there was the sound of metal hitting metal. Then something heavier – Matt couldn’t tell what it was. He strained his hearing as much as he could – a dozen tenants, and several Vansk goons – a car coming in, and they were not tenants from the way people got angrier.

Then, there was the click of a gun safety. And Matt – he was hiding in there, and doing nothing. _No more_ , he thought. _No more_. He unfolded his cane and stepped out.

“Matt!” That was the kid from earlier.

“Mr Murdock!”

His throat was itching, but he swallowed his cough. “Hi, Danika.”

They’d stopped fighting when he appeared, but he could sense the Vansk goons waiting for orders. Now he was outside, he could hear the comms they were wearing, a slight electrical buzz in their ear. There probably were cameras somewhere, too. Someone was watching.

“What’s happening?”

“When can we go back inside?”

He opened his mouth, but a loud scream ending in the shrubs surrounding the little playground shut everyone up.

“Shit,” Mr Belaid said.

“I got them, Murdock!” Jessica yelled down. “You better be out, I’m coming down!”

“ _Shit_ ,” Mr Belaid repeated. “Is she… flying?”

“It’s more of a controlled fall,” Matt said. _Show-off_ , he thought.

But she’d made herself a target, and a gunshot rang. The group of tenants, about 20, 25 people now, started screaming; and the Vansk goons answered with more gunshots. Matt swiped his cane behind the knees of the one closest and _entirely_ accidentally stepped on his gun hand, heard Jessica yell at the tenants to run away and hide while she punched and kicked, and Matt knew he couldn't do any less.

He couldn't rely on his strength anymore, but his technique? Yes. Pressure points, locks, how to dislocate a joint without breaking a sweat – he remembered. Back when he’d been a small, skinny kid, he’d learned how to do it all. Soon enough, most tenants were safely away, and it was just him, Jessica and the hired muscle.

“I’m not telling the boss we’re getting our asses handed to us by a bitch and a blind cripple!”

“Your boss probably knows already. Who’re you calling a bitch?” Jessica said, and there was an oof – from the sound, knee to the gut.

“Probably me,” Matt answered. It was exhilarating to fight again – not like he used to, but still fighting the good fight. Break a wrist with a well-aimed strike of his cane and hear a gun fall to the ground, step between their legs to unbalance them, elbow to the nose, pop a shoulder out of its socket with a precise twist… he didn’t feel his breaths becoming shorter and shorter, he didn’t hear how he was wheezing, he didn't feel any pain. He was useful again, relevant again. The smell of blood, the burn in his lungs and the pain he inflicted… that was his life. That was life.

More gunshots, Jessica yelling at him to stop being an idiot and leave, another car full of goons, then a siren, then two… he lost all sense of time and space outside of his immediate surroundings. Fight, fight, fight. Live.

Then, “Have you seen Mr Tubby?” a small voice piped up.

Fuck. Matt turned his back on whoever he was putting out of commission. “Mr Tubby?” Kid shouldn't be here.

“My cat. He was at home today, but Mommy said home is dangerous right now.”

There was a click behind him. Matt didn’t have time to think, he threw himself over the little girl.

The muffled sound of a gunshot, then another; everything was muffled. It felt like there was no air left around him; no air left to breathe. A heavy weight falling on him, screams. Something warm and wet all over him. He tried to reach out and touch the world around him but there was nothing, no one. It was cold.

“Murdock! You fucking idiot!” Jessica was so far away.

“I did good, right?” Matt isn’t sure she can hear him. “One last good thing?” He was so tired now.

“You asshole, don’t you – yeah, she’s fine, you did good – Matt, I swear to God if you dare – Matt! _Matt!_ ”

 _I’m fine_ , he mouthed. He didn’t think he made any noise. _Just need to lie down for a little while_. No, no noise. That was because he wasn’t breathing. There was no air to breathe. Strangely enough, he felt calm. Peaceful.

Then there was nothing.

 

Sound came back first – high-pitched beeps, a slow drip above his head, someone right next to him. Then, the smell of plastic – something that covered his mouth and nose. It was cold. Then, pressure on his finger, something that felt like a pinch in his arm. Then, pain. Pain everywhere.

He tried to move away from it, instinct taking over; but he couldn’t move. Fear, fear gripped him, the beeps were faster now and he tried to take the cold thing away from his face, he tried to move his hand, he tried –

“Don’t.” Fingers, warm and dry, on his. Jessica’s. “You jerk. You breathed in too much of the gas, and then – what did you think you were doing, Murdock?”

He wanted to answer, but he only heard a little moan. No words.

“Yeah, I know. Docs said you’d probably be in pain, but they’re not sure how stronger meds would react with the shit you breathed. I’m sorry.” She removed the mask from his face.

“Kid?” Matt finally whispered.

“ _She’s_ fine. Not poisoned, not shot, no broken spine.” Her voice ended on a choking sound.

“Dying.”

Jessica didn’t answer, and that was answer enough.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. Your Father John is here, he said you might want… you know.” Last rites. Confession, communion, prayer… peace. Peace.

“Yes.” He’d fought after all, yes, but his dad would forgive him, right? Maggie would be there, right? She’d patch him up again, she would.

“I called Nelson, too. He wants to talk to you. Is that okay?”

Foggy? Oh. He’d never hang out with Foggy again. He tried to nod, and he felt a small weight dropped next to his head on the pillow.

“Hey, buddy.” Foggy had been crying, he could hear it in his voice.

“Hey.” Matt hoped he was loud enough to be heard.

“I thought you were safe in a monastery, Matt. Not… Fuck.”

“M’sorry, Fogs.”

“Jessica said you saved a kid, that you saved people from eviction. You were supposed to rest, you were supposed to – shit.” Foggy was sobbing in earnest now. Matt moved his head a little, and suddenly a few tears ran down from his eyes into his pillow.

“Elena.”

“What?”

“Remember?” A breath, another. They were too short to speak more that a couple syllables at once. “Our first case.”

“Oh. Oh, yes.”

“Avenged her.”

“At what price, Matt? At what price?”

“Life.” Matt smiled. “Has no price.” He’d done good, Right? He’d done good. “Don’t be sad.”

Foggy’s voice fell away into a low buzz, the beeps faded. He’d done good, one last time.

 

There was warmth, and something soft on his forehead, his cheek. A light pressure on his hand; a sweet, unobtrusive, but refined perfume. A heartbeat that seemed familiar, but one he couldn't place. He thought he’d maybe see again, after he died, but he was still blind; or maybe his eyes were closed. Hard to say. Everything was pleasantly heavy and slow. He felt no pain.

This all felt too good to be Hell. Could it be Heaven? He hadn’t expected Heaven.

“I know you’re awake,” and he knew that voice. “You’re not dead. Come on, squeeze my fingers.” He did. He didn’t know whose fingers he was squeezing, but he’d held them before. Why couldn't he recognize them? “That’s it, Matthew. You’re doing good.”

He opened his eyes, and he still couldn’t see a thing. “Elektra?”

“Yes.” Oh. He _was_ dead then. “I heard you were dying,” she said. “So I came.”

“But,” and he stopped there.

“I know. I’m here now.”

And what about before? “I don’t understand,” he breathed out.

“Matthew,” she said. “All those years ago… do you remember?” He tried to nod. “We only hurt each other. After Midland Circle… I let you go. I had to know who I wanted to be, I had to get my revenge; and you… you had your own life to live.”

“I thought,” Matt said. “I thought you were dead.” He’d mourned. He still did.

“I know.” She brushed his forehead again. “I miss your longer bangs, Matthew.” A strand of soft, sleek hair fell on his face, and he’d have recognized it among all others. “I can save you, if you want it. I have managed to find enough of the substance to save you. Not cure you entirely, but I can save you, Matthew. If you want to live. Tell me you want to live, please.” Her voice cut off abruptly, and she took a moment to regulate her breathing. Her heartbeat was strong and true in his ear. “I’ve used just enough to give you a little time with me right now, but…”

“Elektra,” he whispered. “Other people…”

“It would only work for you or me, Matthew. People who’ve already been exposed to the substance one way or another. How else do you think you survived a skyscraper falling down on you?” Her voice was rising. She was angry, but – not at him. “You need it. You deserve it. Say yes.”

He let his thoughts float around him, clouds of _maybes_ and _what ifs_ and _why didn’t yous_. “Will you leave, after?”

“You know I will. I’ll always love you, Matthew, and that’s why I will.”

She was right. They’d hurt each other too much, they’d been manipulated too much, too early in their lives. They would have fit together, but destroyed everything around them. “Me too,” he whispered. He felt her fingers swipe his temples.

“Don’t be a crybaby, now.”

He may have smiled then. “Okay.” If he was dying, then he was happy to die with her right by his side.

She did something with the tubes around him, then settled on the bed right against his side. He still remembered her weight, her shape, the sounds of her. He remembered everything. She hadn’t changed at all, not for him.

“I love you,” he said, and then his thoughts unraveled.

 

The sun’s warmth on his face woke Matt up.

“Welcome back, Matthew.” Someone’s footsteps, slightly irregular. Small limp. “Your lady friend said she could save you, and save you she did. I am glad.”

Matt tried to make a sound, but only managed a rasp. Elektra – he remembered. Something poked his lips – oh, a straw. He sipped a little.

“Not too fast, now.” The straw went away. “She said she had to leave, but she entrusted you with us for now.”

“Oh,” he said.

“It’s a miracle, really. You were dying, but God granted you new life.”

“Father?” Matt tried to move, but his limbs were jelly. At least nothing hurt. “There was,” he whispered, “a little girl. Guns?”

“All is well, Matthew. All is well. That company, Vansk – they were very, very corrupt. Your friend Ms Jones said the notes you had on them were further proof. You both took them down, and you saved all these people. The entire community is very grateful. Hopewood won’t forget, Matthew.”

“Jess?”

“She left this morning, said you didn’t need her. She doesn’t seem like the feelsy kind, does she?”

Hah. “No.”

“The head of that company is apparently based in New York, and she said she found their name. Asked me to tell you.” Matt waited. “A Vanessa Fisk. From your face, the name is familiar?”

Oh, yes. If he had just an ounce of energy he’d laugh, but as it was Matt only nodded.

“What day…?”

“Friday.”

“Leave?”

“Not today, Matthew. Probably in a few days. Our Brothers in St Yves are praying for your swift return. All of them.”

“Thank you,” he said.

But suddenly, Matt didn’t know if he wanted to go back. If life in a monastery was right for him – or rather if he was right for it. He’d tried so hard, and yet again he’d ended up fighting. And he’d liked it, too. It had made him feel alive, even if – or maybe because – it had almost killed him. And where did that leave him?

“You need to rest, Matthew. When you’re better, there are people who want to talk to you; but it can wait.” A plastic chair creaked a little, fabric rustled. Father John was standing up. “Ms Jones left a list of names, people who are waiting for news. It’s a long list, and you matter to all of them. Many people are worried. I will contact them all, and tell them you’re doing well. When you’re better, when you can say more than a couple words at once,” there was a smile in the Superior’s voice, “you can call them yourself.”

It seemed strange. Where had they all been, before he came here? Foggy had been busy with work and his twins, Karen traveled a lot for her investigative blog, Danny… yeah. They’d all had other stuff to do. Matt hadn’t had anything left to give anyone for so long. “Kay,” he only answered. What else could he say? Oh. “Pray?”

Worn wooden beads were put in his hand. “You’re about to fall asleep again, Matthew, and that’s more important right now. God is with you always.”

Matt lost his tenuous grip on consciousness again, the old rosary a comforting weight around his fingers.

 

Over the next few days, he managed to stay awake longer and longer. Father John, Brother Anthony and Brother Raphael visited everyday, and someone from the building generally came to bring him something too. Mrs Vanathasan brought tea, Danika brought flowers, the little girl who’d lost (and found) her cat made him cookies. Then the FBI came with some questions, and he told them what he could. They didn’t ask about any unexpected skills he might have, and he didn’t say anything about it either.

He talked to Foggy every day too, and when he’d apologized for the fifth time about leaving him to deal with all the work he’d abandoned, Foggy snapped.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I shouldn't have done that.”

“Did you think we hadn’t seen it coming?” Foggy sighed. “Well, not this _this_. But you’ve been moping for a long time. Letting Daredevil go, your boredom with the job, then Maggie… You were withdrawing more and more. You’ve been withdrawing for months. Years, really.”

“Oh.”

“We all thought fine, Matty needs some space; so we tried to give it to you. We hoped you’d ask for help, you know? You’d gotten better at that, or that’s what we thought. Instead you packed everything up way more tightly than it needed to be for a couple weeks and fucked off to have some Catholic time in the boonies! You, the guy you can’t take away from New York! We didn’t know it was that bad, Matty. We didn’t – we failed you.”

“We?”

“I’m sorry we didn’t see it.”

“ _We?_ ”

“Yeah, we. You know, Jess and Marci and Karen and Danny and Claire and Father McKay and Kirstie and Clint and… Matt? Matt, are you crying? You’re breathing weird.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay, that usually means you’re not.” Foggy didn’t say anything for a while. “What are you going to do? I can jump on a train right now. I know you’ve said – but just say the word, Matty.”

“You got the kids.”

“They’re asking after you too, you know.”

“How are they?”

“Growing up, growing up too fast. You’re missing it all, buddy.”

Foggy talked a little more about Marci’s latest attempts at cooking (not good) and how Sean and Moira had declared their mom should never be allowed in a kitchen again, about his clients, about Theo’s new shop. Foggy still sounded as full of life as he always had, full of goodwill and warmth.

“I think,” Matt finally said. “I think maybe I should come back.” Not to be a lawyer, not to be Daredevil… but just, maybe, Matt Murdock. Whoever that was, the answer wasn’t in St Yves.

 

“I’m happy you’re getting better in mind and body, Matt. But I still hope you’ll find time to visit us again,” Brother Anthony said.

“I will. And you can come to New York. See the sights, tell me about them.”

“You’re terrible.”

Matt smiled. “I know.”

Footsteps, then a knock on the open door. “Your ride’s here,” Brother Raphael said.

“Thank you. I think I’m done packing, thanks to your help.”

“You are.”

Brother Anthony led him outside, and Brother Raphael carried his small bag to the front courtyard. Low music was playing from inside of a car, and Matt knew it was time to say his last goodbyes. Father John was here, but the other monks had remained inside. He’d come back just this morning from the hospital, talked briefly to each of them already. It was enough. He’d upset their lives enough already.

“You will be remembered fondly here,” Father John said. “Don’t be a stranger, send us news.”

“I will. You were right, Father. My path may not lie here, after all; but you still gave me shelter.”

“God sent us to you so you could help all those people, Matthew.”

“And teach us a lesson or two,” Brother Anthony said. “I haven’t been the best of guides to you.”

“I haven’t been the best postulant. I’m sorry I brought my issues to you instead of working on them.”

They shook hands, but then Brother Raphael said, “Ah, dammit,” and hugged him and Father John laughed a little and said he would pretend he hadn’t heard him and Brother Anthony said, “Fine, me too,” and Matt didn’t know if they’d let him breathe freely again.

Then heavy steps on gravel, and a very unexpected voice said, “Hey, altar boy. Love fest over? Can we hit the road now?”

“Trust you to have a very special ride,” Brother Raphael said.

“I… Frank?”

“Yeah. Nelson didn’t tell you?”

“He said it had all been taken care of, that I should just – I thought he’d ordered a taxi to drive me to the station.” Matt had figured the monks had other plans for today, that he’d already been too much of a burden for one of them to drive him. He hadn’t imagined _that_ at all. “You didn't come all the way here just to, uh.”

“Nah. I was spending a few days at my sister-in-law’s. She’s just as relentless as Maria, she is. Hounds me to visit every few months.” Frank fiddled with the zipper on his jacket. Talking about his wife still made his heart beat a little irregularly, after all these years. “Nelson asked if I could pick you up on my way back.”

“You didn't have to.”

“No, I didn’t. Now get in, Murdock.”

Someone threw his bag into the trunk, hands pushed him into the passenger seat, there was another round of _Goodbyes, God is with you_ , the electric engine hummed softly, and Matt only got back into the now a few miles in.

“I thought Fogs had booked a train ticket.”

“Well, he didn’t. You got me instead.”

Matt racked his brain for something to say. Frank wasn’t the chatty kind, but a silent ride all the way to New York didn’t appeal either. It would be a bit too much. “How’s Clara and the kids, then?” Frank had several nieces and nephews.

“Not kids anymore. We’re all getting older, yeah.”

Yeah, they were. “You sound well.”

“Heard you were an idiot again. You sure look like a breeze would knock you down.”

“Hey, I’m better.”

“Well fuck.”

Matt agreed silently. Frank kept on driving, soft country music the only sound between them, and after a while Matt fell into a light doze. When he woke up, he checked his old watch on his wrist.

“It’s getting late. Must be almost night by now.”

“Yeah, well. We left your hidey hole at about five and I’ve been on the road since three. We’ll get a room to spend the night and leave in the morning.” The radio was on a classic rock station, now. “I don’t see as well as I used to, at night.”

“Are you playing it safe now, Frank?”

“I don’t want to kill you in an accident before we get to New York. Nelson would sue me down to my last box of ammo.”

Soon after, Matt heard the turn signal and they left the main road. “Family-run motel. Often stay here on my way.”

“All right.” Matt didn’t really care. To be honest, he was glad they weren’t driving to New York in one day; just sitting in the car for what, two or three hours now? had left him exhausted.

Frank left the car to go book their room, then came back and helped him out. “You’re too thin, Murdock.”

“Heard that one before.”

“What happened to you?”

“The usual. Time, and a few too many knocks to the head.”

“We all got those. We don’t all say _fuck it all_ and go hide away from the world, though.” An old-fashioned key turned in a old-fashioned lock, and soon enough Frank had helped him to a bed. “ Heard you got injured recently.”

“Yeah. You?”

“I left those days behind.” Unless someone was robbing a bodega Frank was in, but Matt didn’t mention it. The Punisher was mostly retired, it was true. “Maybe you should, too.”

“I had. Frank, I _had._ I can’t do it anymore, even before I ended up in the hospital I was – you know.” Frank did know. They usually met a few times a year; he’d seen Matt break down bit by bit.

“I know.” The thump of a bag at his feet, the door closing. “Need a nap before dinner?”

“I slept in the car.”

“Fine. There’s a decent burger place down the road, a couple blocks over. Drive or walk?”

Matt thought about it. “Walk.” He’d make it.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I, uh. I’m better than I was. I got help.”

“Your God?”

“Elektra.”

“Shit.” Matt may have cried in a few beers while talking about her in the past, and Frank probably knew more than he wanted to about her. And he knew, like Matt had until last week, that she was dead. “Only you, Murdock.”

“She did something – I’m better now. Nothing really hurts, not anymore. I can walk.”

“Don’t make me carry you, all right? Would mess up my back.”

“You’re indestructible.”

Frank sighed, and the second bed’s springs squeaked when he sat down. “We’re the same, Murdock. We’ve always been, deep down. We don’t have superpowers or healing magic or shit like that, we only got by because we’re tough motherfuckers who won’t quit. Because we always could take all the pain and turn it back on whoever deserved it. And now we’re older, all the broken bones and the bullets and the torn ligaments and the concussions… all we got through, it’s never entirely left behind. That’s how it is for us. We’re not indestructible. We never were. We’re lucky to still be here.”

Matt laughed, and it sounded terrible even to his own ears. “Lucky? We’re useless. Look at me, I got one and a half working ears and I get out of breath after walking ten minutes.”

“Because you decided that not being who and what you were before meant you were nothing, and you let go.” That was more or less what Brother Raphael had said, when he hadn’t wanted to see the physiotherapist or tried to skip meals because he wasn’t, he wasn’t ever hungry. “Now stop moping and get up, there’s a burger and a beer with my name on them.” Frank helped him up as gently as his voice was gruff, and Matt squeezed his biceps in thanks. Still firm, whatever Frank said. Comforting. Frank had always felt like a wall, and he’d never been so grateful for it. “You better eat too. I’m supposed to report on you, Murdock. Nelson will make you regret it if you don’t.”

“You could lie for me.”

Frank huffed. “No,” he said, and there was a smile in his voice.

 

Walking to the burger place had been almost too much for Matt, but he’d made it anyway. Frank had slowed down, he’d let Matt lean on him more and more, and yet he never showed the slightest impatience. He remembered Brother Anthony, back when he’d arrived at St Yves; he remembered the state he’d been in. Matt didn’t know how he’d ended up so lucky, that there were people around him willing to put up with his weaknesses and his self-absorption.

Frank led them to a corner table and gave him the seat with the wall at his back, and Matt could finally relax. His legs were shaking under the table, but he didn’t mention it and hoped the waitress didn’t see it when she came to bring them the menus, apologizing profusely when she realized Matt couldn't read it. Frank pushed a glass of water in his direction and started to read him what was on offer out loud, but Matt shook his head.

“Order for me, all right? You’ve been here before.”

“Anything you don’t like?”

There wasn’t any food that particularly appealed right now, but also nothing that seemed like it would turn his stomach. _Progress_ , he thought. _That’s progress, right?_ “I’m good.” Matt could feel Frank’s stare on him, heavy and – maybe – concerned. He ignored it.

“Drink?” Matt shrugged. “Yeah, maybe not. You’re so skinny it’ll just go straight to your head, right?”

“Hey,” Matt said. “I had Communion wine every day at St Yves.”

“Point’s still standing. Unlike you.”

Matt smiled. With teeth. “Fuck you, Frank.”

“You can try. But better build up your stamina first, Red.”

“You haven’t called me that in a while.”

“Don’t like it?”

He used to hate it – reducing him to a color he couldn't see, then a color he wasn’t even wearing any longer. “No, it’s fine. It’s… a reminder, I guess.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. The past?”

“You’re mopey. Don’t be.”

The waitress came back to their table and Frank ordered for them. Matt was grateful he didn’t have to talk to her, he didn’t want to hear her pity. He didn’t want anyone’s pity.

The beer was good, the burger and fries better, and if he didn’t finish any of it Frank still got him to eat a few bites of his own slice of apple pie.

“I didn’t know you had a sweet tooth, Frank.”

“I don’t hear you complaining.” The plate scraped against the worn table as he pushed it forward again, and Matt took another small piece.

“I’m not. You were right, it’s a nice place.” Not too noisy, not too new, not too old. Warm.

“Yeah. Usually stop here for the night when I visit Clara.”

Matt stretched and felt his vertebrae pop. Now he was full, the trek back to the motel seemed even more of a challenge. But he could do it, right? Be a tough motherfucker, as Frank had put it. Walk two blocks, collapse in bed. “Ever thought of leaving New York?”

Frank didn’t answer right away. His fork grated the ceramic, he finished Matt’s beer. “Nah,” he finally said. “I always come back.”

“Yeah.” Matt leaned back against the pleather of his seat. “Coffee?”

“No. Ready to turn in?”

“Sure.” Matt felt for his wallet, but Frank had already got up and walked to the till. He'd have to pay him back, later.

“Jenny said she could drive us back to the motel,” Frank said when he was back at their table.

“Jenny?”

“Waitress. I said yes.”

Matt wanted to be angry, but he found he didn't have the energy for it. “That’s nice,” he said.

“Said she heard about your little stunt from her aunt, and that it’s the least she can do. Think you got a fan here.”

“I…” He wanted to say, _I can walk, I don’t need anyone. I won’t be a burden._ But none of it was true.

“Don’t overthink it. Just say yes and thank you, like a good little choir boy.”

“I never was one, you know. I really can’t sing.”

“Monks must be relieved you left, then.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Matt let Frank help him out of their booth and steady him.

“You’re drunk, Red.”

“What? No, I’m not.” Matt shook his arm free. “Standing on my own, thank you very much.”

“Meant you look happy.”

“Oh.”

Matt realized he was smiling, a small but genuine smile that matched the warmth he felt inside him. He kept on feeling it right up to the minute he fell asleep all cocooned in fleecy PJs he didn’t remember having but put on anyway, and then he knew nothing until morning.

 

He woke to the sound of the door opening, Frank’s heavy steps inside. He smelled of coffee and fresh sweat, and there was a breath of cool air that came in with him.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Frank said. The curtain rings slid noisily on the rod, and Matt threw the covers over his head. He might not see the light, but he could _feel_ the morning – people talking outside, Frank moving about the room without trying to be quiet.

“Early?”

“Eight thirty.” Matt curled a little tighter. He didn’t want to leave the bed. “Looked like you weren’t going to wake up anytime soon, so I went for a run. Brought breakfast back.”

“Nice,” Matt mumbled. Well, not the morning run. That was disgusting. Morning people were disgusting.

“I’m hitting the shower. You better be out of bed when I get out.”

Matt stayed under the covers until he heard the water running, then started the slow process of untangling himself from the bedsheets. He found the coffee Frank had put there, and drank it slowly as his free hand slid over the bedside table and found his watch and a piece of thick paper. There was Braille on it. His fingers ran over it quickly.

 _Matthew_ , it said. _Take better care of yourself, and keep warm._ More words had been punched in, but they were unreadable. Someone had taken a… knife, probably, and torn through them. Only the bottom line was still there. _…ways, Elektra_.

He let the paper fall down. Well, he knew where the pajamas were from, at least. They’d felt too new, too soft to be one of his.

The door to the bathroom opened, and Frank must have seen him still sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I said out of bed, Red. Not on it.”

“I was just waiting for you to be done,” Matt said.

“Don’t you have any PT to do?”

“Um.”

“You do, don’t you.”

“I used to – I can’t, now. You know that.”

“Stop whining and start building up to it, then. That’s how it works.”

“You got a medical degree, now?”

“I got through it enough times. I know this shit. You do too, if you take your head out of your ass for a minute.”

“I’ll never get back to what I was.”

“No. But you’ll get stronger than now.”

Matt sighed. Maybe. Maybe Frank was right. Thanks to whatever Elektra had done, he wasn’t in constant pain anymore, at least. And his right ear hadn’t been giving him grief, now he thought about it. It was a start, right? “Yeah, okay. But I can’t do it alone.” He needed someone to catch him when he fell, he needed someone to help him stretch.

“I’m here,” Frank said.

When he was done Matt was exhausted and very sweaty, but he was also hungry. That was new. He hadn’t been really, genuinely hungry in a long time. And then he found out there was a plastic stool in the shower so he didn’t have to stand on shaky legs, and if he cried a little as he washed no one saw it.

 

It was rather late in the morning when they finally left the little town, but there was no hurry. Matt was soon dozing against the passenger window, and he let the miles go by with the radio on low in his ear. Some music, a news station, some more music. And through it all, Frank’s steady breathing, his fingers occasionally tapping along a song on the wheel, even sometimes humming. Matt woke up as the car slowed down and Frank pulled into, from the smell of oil and motor grease, a gas station.

“You need anything, Murdock?”

“Hm.” Matt rubbed his face. “Just stretch my legs, hit the can.”

The car stopped. “There’s a food court about 100 feet to your left. I’ll plug the car in and meet you there.”

“Okay.”

Matt unfolded his cane and made his way to the building. He was assaulted by the smells of food and people, the noise of a few grills, many refrigerators and freezers, the clicks of forks on plates… he asked someone to point him to the restrooms, and when he got out he followed Frank’s heartbeat to an organic food stand.

“Want a salad bowl, Red? Their macrobiotic stuff is alright.”

“The electric car was one thing, but I didn’t know you were into that too.”

“Electric cars have better acceleration. And that stuff’s good for you.”

Matt blinked. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Some people take care of themselves, Murdock. So? You in?”

“Sure.”

They ate it on the benches outside, the late spring sun pleasantly warm on their faces. Frank darted back inside to get coffees to go ( _Not so healthy now, are we?_ Matt thought. _All that coffee can’t be good, right?_ ) and they went back to the car for the final stretch.

“How far are we?”

“Couple hours, depending on traffic.”

A couple hours, and then he’d have to face his life back, and decide what to do with it. The more he thought about it, the more he knew he didn’t want to go back to the law. He didn’t feel like he really helped anymore, not the people who now came to him. But what, then?

“Hey, Frank.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you do, these days?” Matt knew he sometimes worked in construction, or as a handyman. He’d once found him dog-sitting for an older neighbor in his building, who’d gone to visit her daughter in Baltimore. Things he could pick up and leave easily, things where no one asked too many questions as long as he got the job done. Things that didn’t ask him to shoot or kill, to protect or guard.

“I’m between jobs.”

“Anything on the horizon?”

Frank was silent for a moment. “There’s something, yeah.”

“House painting? Dog-sitting?”

“Will you let that go, Red? I did once, because she asked. I couldn't say no to a little old lady, could I?”

“You couldn't say no to the dog, more like.”

Frank huffed. “Believe what you want.” He fiddled with something, and the radio became quiet. “The something on my horizon. Could be your something, too.”

“I’m no good at plumbing, Frank. Ask Foggy.”

“It’s not – look. Some of your buddies, they’re opening a small place. A gym. Figured they’re all getting older, but they can still help.”

“My… buddies?”

“Yeah. The bulletproof guy, he came to see me a month go, said he’d like to talk. Asked me to join.”

“You, playing well with others?”

“Yeah, well. He said they were looking for people with actual fighting experience to offer self-defense classes, on top of regular training.”

“And you said yes?”

“I said maybe.”

“Who’s in there, apart from Luke?”

“Bout a half-dozen people. There will be Eastern martial arts stuff with the Rand guy and Colleen Wing, and some archery with Barton. Cage said he was trying to recruit Jessica for some women only classes, and hoping she’d say yes.”

“What would you do?”

“Fix the plumbing and give self-defense classes, I guess. Maybe gun safety. I don't know. Haven’t said yes.”

Not _yet_ , Matt thought. “Danny’s financing it?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t have anything to contribute.”

“Yes you do. You know fighting, you know boxing, you know that ninja shit, and you know the law.”

“Frank… I can’t teach any of it.” Matt gestured at himself. Even if he managed to rebuild some of his strength, he’d never be actually strong again. Who would listen to a guy looking like he’d barely survive a light punch to the gut?

“Sure you can. People would flock to get taught by Daredevil.”

“I’m not getting the mask out again.”

“What are you talking about? We say Matt Murdock’s giving boxing tips, people are going to sign up right away.”

 _We_ , huh. Frank was more invested in this project than he’d let on. “No one knows – ”

“You joking? Most people know who you are, in the Kitchen. It’s been an open secret for years.”

“But…” Matt reeled. All the little things over the years, little acts of kindness; cabs undercharging him, an extra cookie slipped in with his order – he’d always thought they were out of pity for the blind man; but maybe they’d been acts of gratitude, too? He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

“Think about it, yeah?”

Frank turned the radio back on, and Matt let the news wash over him as he replayed the conversation on repeat in his mind, tried to see himself in a gym again. He dug out the sounds of fists hitting a heavy bag from his memories, from the place where he’d kept so many things locked away where they wouldn't hurt too much. Maggie’s voice, his father's face, the smell of Fogwell’s. He tried to picture himself telling a little girl to straighten her wrist, listening after that to check if she was punching right. The idea was terrifying.

And he found he wanted it, after all.

 

As Frank had predicted, traffic was terrible, and it was late afternoon when they finally crossed a bridge into Manhattan.

“I’m not dropping you at your place, Red.”

“Why?”

“Karen said it’s cold, the fridge is empty, and you’re not to be left alone anyway. In case you try to leave again, she said.”

“I won’t.”

“Yeah, well. They don’t trust you yet, and whose fault is that?”

Matt was about to protest when he realized where they were. Frank parked, and as soon as he got out of the car there were about three pairs of arms at varying heights around him.

“Don’t ever do that again, Matty.” Foggy’s voice was all broken, and Matt gingerly extracted a hand from the human pile-up to pat Foggy’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“Uncle Matt!” That was Moira. She was always the first to talk, before her brother Sean.

“Yeah, kids.”

“Daddy says you’re staying with us for now?”

Matt patted whatever head was closest and held in whatever was building behind his eyes. “If your mother’s okay with it.”

“You know she is,” Foggy said. “It’s her idea, even. Now come inside, Marci’s ordered way too much food and we should start on it, alright?”

“Kay,” Matt wasn’t up to more than one syllable at a time, or else he’d break down crying. He’d felt numb for so long, and now it was like he was going from one emotion to another too fast to process anything.

“Hey Frank, want to come up too?” Oh, Foggy. Always so generous.

“Nah, I’m good. You enjoy yourself, yeah?”

“Not even for a quick beer and pad thai?”

“Ah, fuck.”

The twins giggled but Foggy didn’t correct Frank’s language for once, and they all piled up in the elevator.

And for the first time in a long time, Matt found he liked feeling people all so close to him. They were, after all, _his_ people, just as he belonged to them.

 

Raphael hadn’t been back in New York in years and he hadn’t really missed it, but since Father John had agreed he should go to that medical conference he’d found himself anticipating it.

He still had family there of course, and he looked forward to seeing them again; plus the conference promised to be interesting. But he’d also planned to go see how Matthew was doing, and all of St Yves as well as Hopewood were waiting for his report. It was as if no one trusted Matthew to be 100% truthful in his messages, somehow. But Raphael had faith, and not only in God.

They were supposed to go to an early morning mass together on Tuesday, then share breakfast; but Raphael decided he’d go surprise him first on Monday evening, at the gym where he was working. No one could tell him what it was called, but it was easy to find, right at the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.

Even before he set foot in the main room he could hear the thumps of someone hitting a heavy bag, and Matthew’s low voice encouraging someone. Right by the reception desk, there were posters, calendars and the week’s classes and instructors listed on a whiteboard where grooves had been carved in. The names were replaced with magnets – he spotted a skull, a Japanese sword, a bow and arrow. There were also first aid classes, a few hours a week where legal advice was free for those in need, something called _meditation 101_ , and others Raphael didn’t check too closely. That wasn’t was he was here for.

“Matthew,” he said once he came in. He knew he didn’t need to shout.

“Brother Raphael?” Matthew said a few words to his pupil and joined him.

“Yes. It’s good to see you, really.” He was glowing, his cheeks red with healthy exertion and a thin sheet of sweat on his forehead, under hair that had grown longer again.

“Well, I can’t say the same, obviously.”

Oh, Brother Raphael had never seen that shit-eating grin before... It fit well on Matthew’s face. “You’ll never let the blind jokes go, will you?”

“Never.” The grin widened, and he stuck his taped hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt. Their weight pulled on the fabric, and it delineated how much stronger he’d become in 6 months.

“You’re looking well, Matthew.”

“I was starting from a low point, could only go up from there.”

“That’s true.” A true miracle, it was. And probably a lot of work and determination on Matthew’s part, too.

“I’m better, now. I’ll never be able to go back to, well, you know. But I’m better.”

“It shows. You seem happier, too.”

“I know who to thank for that.” Matthew shook his head. “You all reminded me I wasn’t alone, and I’ll never thank you enough. I got help here, too. A nurse friend helped me a lot with all the PT and, uh, other stuff; and she encouraged me to come here when I wasn’t sure. She was right.”

“Here, huh. Does this place have a name? I couldn't find one.”

“Well, we couldn't _agree_ on one, so for now it’s just Our Gym.”

“Imagination won.”

“Still better than what other people were suggesting, believe me.” He gestured to the kid he’d left with the heavy bag and tilted his head. “I’d better get back to, you know.”

“Of course. Still on for tomorrow, Matthew?”

“You bet. I left St Yves, but I never left the Church.”

Raphael laughed. “I don’t think you can, at that point.”

“Probably not.”

They grasped each other's shoulders, and then Raphael went in for a full hug. He could feel Matthew’s hard-won definition under his hand, and he could _definitely_ feel the strength in his arms; so different from the broken man he’d first met months ago. He wondered how strong he’d actually been, back in his vigilante days. How much of it had been strength of will, how much of it had been sheer muscle. “Tomorrow, then. Peace be with you, my friend.”

“And with you,” Matthew said. His eyes were very bright, and Raphael squeezed his shoulder one last time before leaving the gym.

For someone who’d fought under the name of the Devil, Matthew Murdock carried the grace of God, too.

 

 

Click on the pic for full-size!

[ ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/553da6b936d3572b203c1a1876273db4/tumblr_messaging_pqss0bw1m31qm4m43_1280.jpg)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading to the end :-)
> 
> To the Matt/Elektra shippers: I really wondered about adding it to the MattElektraBingo, because in length it's a very small part plus a couple mentions. However, this part is also a significant turning point for Matt in the story, so I chose to add it in the end.  
> I hope it's okay for the mods.
> 
> The name of the monastery Matt retreats to is in honour of [St Yves](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ivo_of_Kermartin), patron saint among other things of lawyers and abandoned children. Given Matt's history and his conflicted relationship with god, it seemed to fit ^_^
> 
> During the writing of this fic, I followed [this schedule](https://www.conceptionabbey.org/monastery/a-monks-day/) for the monks' day and the time of prayers.  
> I did my best to be reasonably believable in this story regarding the monastic lifestyle, but my understanding of monastery life and buildings is more based on Middle-Ages Western Europe than contemporary North America... and I had to tweak a few things to fit the story I wanted to tell.  
> No disrespect meant to actual, real-life American monks of today :-)


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